ELECTED 
STORIES 

FROM 

O.  HENRY 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

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SELECTED   STORIES 

FROM 

O.  HENRY 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  C.  ALPHONSO  SMITH 

Repetition  and  Parallelism  est  English  Verse 

Anglo-Saxon  Grammar  and  Exercise  Book 

Studies  in  English  Syntax 

Die  Amerikanische  Literatur 

What  Can  Literature  Do  for  Me  ? 

O,  Henry  Biogil^phy 

Keynote  Studies  in  Kjeynote  Books  of  the 
Bible 

New  Words  Self-Defined 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  :  How  to  Know  Him 


O.  HFARY  IN  THP:  WINTER  OF  1909-10 


SELECTED  STORIES 

FROM 

O.   HENRY 

EDITED  BY 

C.  ALPHONSO  SMITH 

LATE  HEAD  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH 
IN    THE    UNITED     STATES    NAVAL    ACADEMY 


THE  ODYSSEY  PRESS 

NEW   YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  1907,  1908,  1909,  1910,  1911,  1922,  BY 

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CONTENTS 

O.  Henry Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Introduction v" 

The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves 1 

Roads  of  Destiny 16 

A  Retrieved  Reformation 41 

The  Brief  Debut  of  Tildy 50 

A  LicKPENNY  Lover 57 

The  Pendulum ^"^ 

Transients  in  Arcadia '^0 

The  Roads  We  Take 77 

The  Furnished  Room 83 

Makes  the  Whole  World  Eon 91 

Squaring  the  Circle 97 

The  Cop  and  the  Anthem 103 

The  Making  OF  A  New  Yorker Ill 

A  Cosmopolite  in  a  Cafe 118 

Mammon  and  the  Archer 125 

An  Unfinished  Story 133 

The  Last  Leaf 141 

The  Gift  of  the  Magi 149 

The  Handbook  of  Hymen 156 

The  Trimmed  Lamp 169 

The  Caballero's  Way         182 

The  World  and  the  Door 196 

'*The  Rose  OF  Dixie" 211 

A  Municipal  Report 224 

Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse 242 


INTRODUCTION 


A  GOOD  coign  of  vantage  for  the  appraisal  of  O.  Henry  is 
found  in  the  number  and  variety  of  authors  with  whom  he  has 
been  compared.     No  other  American  writer  of  recent  times 
has  sent  his  critics  on  so  many  or  so  diverse  quests  for  sug- 
gestive parallels  or  equally  suggestive  contrasts.     He  himself 
once  wrote :^     "When  we  strove  to  set  forth  real  life  they 
reproached  us  for  trying  to  imitate  Henry  George,  George 
Washington,  Washington  Irving,  and  Irving  Bacheller.     We 
wrote  of  the  West  and  the  East,  and  they  accused  us  of  both 
Jesse  and  Henry  James."     He  has  not  been,  so  far  as  my 
reading  goes,  "accused"  of  Henry  James;  but  the  vocabulary 
and  plots  of  the  two  have  been  interestingly  likened.     "We 
reahze,"  says  a  writer  in  The  Unpopular  Review,^  "that  we 
are  dealing  with  no  uncouth  ranchman  who  has  literary 
aspirations,  who  writes  in  slang  for  want  of  legitimate  vocabu- 
lary.    We  are  in  the  hands  of  one  who  has  read  widely  and 
well  one  who  has  a  vocabulary,  not  including  his  slang,  which 
may  be  called  unique,  which  may  be  compared  indeed  with 
that  of  a  Pater  or  a  James."     And  Miss  Blanche  Colton 
Winiams,^  after  mentioning  a  group  of  O.  Henry  stories, 
among  which  are  Transients  in  Arcadia,  The  Gift  of  the  Magi, 
and  The  World  and  the  Door,  adds:  "In  connection  with  these 
plots,  O.  Henry  must  have  observed  that  Henry  James  had 
employed  the  method  he  himself  had  used.     It  is  a  far  call 
from  one  of  these  stylists  to  the  other;  yet  the  older  writer's 

^The  Girl  and  the  Habit 

2April-June,  1917. 

^Our  ShoH  Story  Writers  (1920),  page  220. 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

Broken  Wings,  The  Real  Thing,  and  The  Madonna  oj  the 
Future  have  at  their  bases  the  very  plot  principle  on  which 
O.  Henry  rested  the  group  just  given." 

No  one,  however,  has  gone  so  far  afield  for  an  analogue  as 
Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay :  ^ 

How  coolly  he  misquoted.     'Twas  his  art — 
Slave-scholar,  who  misquoted — from  the  heart. 
So  when  we  slapped  his  back  with  friendly  roar 
Esop  awaited  him  without  the  door, — 
Esop  the  Greek,  who  made  dull  masters  laugh 
With  little  tales  of  fox  and  dog  and  calf. 

It  is  hardly  adequate  to  say  that  O.  Henry  misquoted 
"coolly."  He  misquoted  reconstructively.  He  made  mis- 
quotation an  art.  Instead  of  merely  mutilating,  as  Sheridan 
makes  Mrs.  Malaprop  do,  O.  Henry  impresses  a  new  meaning 
and  releases  a  new  thought.  Many  of  his  misquotations  de- 
serve to  live  as  original  creations.  Two  of  his  characters,  for 
example,  lose  their  booty  by  quarreling  over  it:  "There  was  a 
rift  within  the  loot,  as  Albert  Tennyson  says."  A  connois- 
seur in  ordering  fashionable  dinners  is  described  as  "one  tc 
the  menu  born."  Spenser's  famous  warning  in  The  Faerie 
Qiieene,  "Be  bolde,  be  bolde,  and  everywhere  be  bolde.  Be 
not  too  bolde"  is  metamorphosed  into  "Be  bold;  everywhere 
be  bold,  but  be  not  bowled  over."  "A  straw  vote,"  says  O. 
Henry,  "only  shows  which  way  the  hot  air  blows."  "Strong 
drink,"  we  are  assured,  "is  an  adder,  and  subtracter,  too." 
Tennyson's  "Fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a  throne"  is 
democratized  into  "The  fierce  light  that  beats  upon  the 
throwTi-down." 

At  first  Mark  Twain  and  Kipling  were  the  authors  most 
often  requisitioned  for  comparison.  "O.  Henry  is  a  humorist," 
said  The  Nation,"  "in  spite  of  his  local  color  and  his  cheer- 
ful spirit,  a  humorist  after  Kipling  rather  than  after  Mark 

^  The  Knight  in  Disguise. 
*July  4,  1907. 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

Twain.  More  than  once  in  the  present  volume^  he  pays  a 
tribute,  stated  or  impHed,  to  the  author  of  the  Plain  Tales, 
and  though  his  characteristic  mood  is  more  grim  [less  grim?], 
his  style  has  much  of  Kiphng's  terseness  and  saliency." 
There  is  no  doubt  that  Kipling  influenced  O.  Henry's  style. 
He  was  deeply  gratified  by  the  message  that  Kipling  was  said 
to  have  sent  him :  "  Do  you  know  O.  Henry  ?  Well,  when  you 
see  him,  tell  him  Hello  for  me."  Mr.  Oilman  Hall  relates 
also  that  O.  Henry  was  most  interested  in  Stevenson  but 
that  he  had  left  his  edition  of  Stevenson  in  Texas,  and  had 
in  all  only  about  twenty-seven  books  in  his  room  in  New 
York. 

Mr.  O.  W.  Firkins,  in  one  of  the  most  discriminating 
critiques^  yet  written  of  O.  Henry,  finds  a  contrasting  point  de 
repere  in  Shakespeare  and  Chaucer.  "There  is,"  he  says, 
"one  literary  trait  in  which  I  am  unable  to  name  any  writer 
of  tales  in  any  literature  who  surpasses  O.  Henry.  It  is  not 
primary  or  even  secondary  among  literary  merits;  it  is  less  a 
value  per  se  than  the  condition  or  foundation  of  values.  But 
its  utihty  is  manifest,  and  it  is  rare  among  men;  Chaucer  and 
Shakespeare  prove  the  possibility  of  its  absence  in  masters  of 
that  very  branch  of  art  in  which  its  presence  would  seem  to 
be  imperative.  I  refer  to  the  designing  of  stories— not  to  the 
primary  intuition  or  to  skill  in  development,  in  both  of  which 
finer  phases  of  invention  O.  Henry  has  been  largely  and 
frequently  surpassed,  but  to  the  disposition  of  masses,  to  the 
blocking-out  of  plots.  That  a  half-educated  American 
provincial  should  have  been  original  in  a  field  in  which  orig- 
inal men  have  been  copyists  is  enough  of  itself  to  make  his 
personality  observable."  Mr.  Firkins  cites  as  illustrations 
AJter  Twenty  Years  and  The  Furnished  Room. 

An  Enghsh  critic,  Mr.  S.  P.  B.  Mais,^  finds  a  bond  between 
Shakespeare  and  O.  Henry  in  the  common  compass  of  their 
sympathies.     Citing  the  foreword  to  The  Four  Million  Mr. 

1  The  Trimmed  Lamp. 

2  The  Review.     New  York,  September  13,  1919. 
^In  From  Shakespeare  to  0.  Henry  (1918). 


X  INTRODUCTION 

Mais  continues:  "Here  we  get  the  clue  to  O.  Henry's  great 
ness,  his  kinship  with  Dickens  and  Shakespeare  and  all  great 
writers.  He  was  the  born,  large-hearted  democrat  who, 
with  the  utmost  sincerity,  can  lay  his  hand  upon  his  breast 
and  say:  Humani  nihil  a  me  alienum  piito.'* 

The  resemblance  to  Dickens  seems  to  Mr.  Stephen  Lea- 
cock  ^  more  a  matter  of  canvas  than  of  common  sympathies : 
"It  is  an  error  of  the  grossest  kind  to  say  that  O.  Henry's 
work  is  not  sustained.  In  reality  his  canvas  is  vast.  His 
New  York  stories,  like  those  of  Central  America  or  of  the 
West,  form  one  great  picture  as  gloriously  comprehensive  in 
its  scope  as  the  lengthiest  novels  of  a  Dickens  or  the  canvas  of 
a  Da  Vinci.  It  is  only  the  method  that  is  different,  not  the 
result." 

Another  English  critic^  discovers  a  likeness  to  O.  Henry 
in  the  sketches  of  Phil  May  and  the  dramas  of  Eugene  Scribe : 
"His  work  reminds  us  of  Phil  May's  sketches  in  economy  of 
material  and  ruthless  elimination  of  the  unessential.  His 
action  never  lags  unmeaningly.  As  the  story  approaches  its 
close,  the  apparently  irrelevant  delays,  the  side-issues  taken 
up  and  dropped  ostensibly  without  purpose,  suddenly  assume 
a  vital  importance  and  reach  their  true  proportion  in  the  re- 
flected light  of  the  finale.  .  .  .  Alike  in  his  merits  and 
defects,  O.  Henry  had  a  strong  affinity  to  Eugene  Scribe,  the 
master-carpenter  of  the  French  drama.  Scribe  had  the  same 
constructive  ability,  the  same  talent  for  finding  neat  and 
unexpected  solutions  to  his  imbroglios,  the  same  gift  of  know- 
ing what  the  public  wanted  almost  before  it  knew  itself,  the 
same  disregard  of  all  that  did  not  make  for  the  immediate 
appeal.  He  had  sufficient  wit  and  humor  to  keep  his  audi- 
ence amused,  and  sufficient  skill  in  character-drawing  to  make 
his  action  seem  plausible.     More  he  hardly  attempted." 

To  Miss  Williams^  O.  Henry  has  proved  both  a  summariz- 
ing and  a  projecting  influence:  "He  sums  up  the  development 

^Essays  and  Literary  Studies  (1916). 

2 Writing  anonymously  in  The  Spectator,  London,  April  7,  1917. 

^Our  Short  Story  Writers  (1920). 


INTRODUCTION  = 

ot  the  short  story  from  Poe  to  the  present.  Stockton  humor. 
Aldrich  surprise,  and  Harte's  exaltation  of  local  color  con- 
tributed  to  his  flood  tide.  But  they  remam  tributary  ... 
It  is  quite  likely  that  not  one  writer  who  learned  the  tools 
of  his  trade  after  1900  has  been  able  to  avoid  the  influence  o 
the  most  American  of  short-story  writers  of  the  tirst 
twentieth  century  decade." 

H  C  Bunner  has  also  been  mentioned  many  times  among 
0  Henry's  Uneal  if  not  contributory  predecessors.  ihe 
resemblance."  writes  an  unnamed  reviewer,  ^  is  persistently 
felt  before  it  can  be  named;  recognized,  unmistakably,  betore 
it  is  analyzed.  Because  it  is  not  a  superficial  likeness,  but  an 
essential  similarity .  They  were  one  kin,  Bunner  and  Porter 
in  their  stories.  One  spirit  moved  them.  Both '^ere  keen 
reporters.  Neither  missed  the  significance  in  the  slightest 
clue  to  character.  Each  responded  to  the  stimulus  of  sug- 
gestion m  every  odd  'situation,'  every  incident  packed  with 
humor  or  tragedy.  And  each  had  that  rare  power  of  putting 
too  a  few  paragraphs  the  secret  ot  a  life,  the  summary 

of  a  character."  ,         , 

But  Guy  de  Maupassant  has  been  summoned  to  bear 
comparative  testimony  to  O.  Henry's  merits  or  demerits 
more  often  than  any  other  writer.     "It  •«  a  truism  to  ob- 
serve "   says  Miss  WiUiams  once  more,      that  O.   Henry 
learned  from  Aldrich  and  Maupassant  how  to  construct  sur- 
prise; but  not  to  remark  that  he  progressed  beyond  the 
French  author  in  this  particular  phase  of  technique.       And 
the  English  critic  already  cited^  finds  the  most  salient  differ- 
ential between  the  two  men  to  consist  in  their  attitude  towa  d 
women:  "O.  Henry's  intense  and  chivalrous  sympathy  for  the 
working  girl  and  the  woman  of  the  underworld  crucified   or 
L  sin!  of  men  preserved  his  work  from  that  cold  cruelty 
which  makes  some  of  Maupassant's  short  atones  an  insult  to 
our  general  humanity.     When  he  wrote  on  their  behalf  he 
wrote  keenly  and  bitterly,  and  his  words  were  barbed  with 

iln  The  Sun,  New  York,  March  4,  1917. 
^The  Spectator,  London,  AprU  7,  1917. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

insight  and  conviction."  To  Mr.  Henry  James  Forman^  the 
difference  lies  chiefly  in  Maupassant's  defective  humor:  "No 
one,  it  is  safe  to  say,  has  brought  so  much  fun  and  humor  to 
the  Western  story.  Cattle-king,  cowboy,  miner,  the  plains 
and  the  chaparral — material  of  the  'dime  novel'  but  all 
treated  with  the  skill  of  a  Maupassant,  and  a  humor  Mau- 
passant never  dreamed  of." 

IVIrs.  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould,  who  maintains  that  O. 
Henry  is  a  "pernicious  influence,"  that  he  did  not  write  short 
stories  but  only  expanded  anecdotes,  contrasts  the  two 
authors  thus:  *'In  Maupassant's  stories  you  know  how  the 
characters  would  act  whatever  extraneous  conditions  might 
enter;  but  in  O.  Henry's  stories  you  know  how  the  people 
acted  in  one  set  of  circumstances,  but  you  have  no  idea  how 
they  w^ould  act  at  any  other  time."  The  remark  is  eminently 
just,  but  do  the  honors  go  to  Maupassant?  I  do  not  know 
for  the  life  of  me  how  the  characters  in  our  selected  stories 
"would  act  under  other  circumstances.  Human  nature  is 
proverbially  incalculable.  Thackeray  said  that  when  writing 
Vanity  Fair  he  not  only  did  not  know  what  Becky  Sharp  was 
going  to  do  next  but  was  equally  ignorant  of  what  she  had 
already  done.  The  short  story  is  the  simplification  of  a  small 
section  of  life ;  it  is  not  the  projection  of  a  life  curve.  Charac- 
ter may  be  revealed  or  determined  in  it;  but  in  either  case  it 
is  not  petrified  or  predestined.  Maupassant's  art  of  course 
needs  no  defence,  but  a  wise  insight  into  human  nature  was 
not  among  his  virtues.  His  characters  can  hardly  be  said  to 
act.  They  react,  and  react  with  such  abnormal  uniformity 
that  the  reader  can  conjecture  not  only  their  reaction  to  other 
happenings  but  their  reaction  in  the  story  itself  before  the 
story  has  fairly  begun. 

II 

But  O.  Henry's  life  furnishes  a  more  intimate  introduction 
to  his  stories  than  can  be  found  in  even  the  most  elaborate 


The  North  American  Review,  May,  1908. 


INTRODUCTION 


xin 


array  of  comparative  estimates.  His  reputation  was  made, 
it  is  true,  before  his  life  was  known  well  enough  to  serve  as 
runnmg  comment  on  his  work.  But  I  can  recall  no  author 
whose  life  parallels  his  writing  more  closely  or  more  reveal- 
ingly  than  O.  Henry's. 

William  Sidney  Porter,  better  known  as  O.  Henry,  was 
born  on  September  11,  1862  (not  1867),  in  Greensboro,  Guil- 
ford County,  North  Carolina.  Here  he  resided  until  1882, 
and  here  the  O.  Henry  Hotel  with  its  memorial  room  attests 
the  affectionate  regard  in  which  his  boyhood  friends  still 
cherish  his  memory.  He  went  to  school  to  his  aunt  and  for  a 
few  months  to  the  graded  school  that  had  just  been  founded  in 
Greensboro.  He  was  original  and  painstaking  in  all  of  his 
school  duties  and  before  he  reached  his  teens  was  reading 
widely  and  assimilatively.  In  these  early  years  he  would 
catch  quickly  the  style  of  an  author  and  reproduce  it  with 
humorous  additions  in  stories  told  to  his  coterie.  He  made 
several  attempts  at  this  time  to  unravel  and  complete 
Dickens's  unfinished  story.  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood,  but 
gave  it  up  as  beyond  his  powers.  As  he  always  said  that  he 
read  more  in  Greensboro  than  at  any  other  period  of  his  life, 
it  may  be  well  to  summarize  here  the  books  and  authors  re- 
ferred to  by  him  in  his  stories.  The  Bible  leads  with  sixty- 
three  references;  Shakespeare  follows  with  thirty-four; 
Tennyson,  always  his  favorite  poet,  with  twenty-one;  The 
Arabian  Nights  with  fourteen,  though  the  figures  do  not  show 
the  relative  significance  of  the  great  classic  in  his  work; 
Kipling  with  twelve;  Byron  and  Dickens  with  seven  each; 
Omar  Khayyam  with  six;  Conan  Doyle  with  five;  Csesar, 
Marcus  Aurelius,  Keats,  and  Henry  James  each  with  four. 
The  total  number  of  authors  alluded  to  directly  or  indirectly 
is  one  hundred  and  thirty-six. 

From  school  he  passed  to  his  uncle's  drug  store  where  he 
remained  until  1882.  In  both  school  and  store  he  was  known 
not  only  as  a  timid  and  reticent  boy,  living  chiefly  within 
himself,  but  as  a  rarely  promising  cartoonist.  Individuals 
and  groups  were  reproduced  by  him  in  pen  or  pencil  sketch 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

with  equal  ease  and  fidelity.  The  drug  store  was  the  rendez« 
vous  of  all  types  of  Greensboro  characters  as  it  was  the  clear- 
ing house  of  all  local  news;  and  Will  Porter,  who  as  O.  Henry 
was  later  to  become  the  interpreter  of  New  York  through  his 
stories,  became  first  the  historian  of  Greensboro  through  his 
cartoons. 

At  the  age  of  twenty  he  went  to  Texas  where  he  remained, 
with  the  exception  of  about  six  months,  until  1898.  He 
lived  first  on  a  ranch  in  La  Salle  County,  then  moved  to 
Austin,  then  to  Houston.  In  Austin  he  edited  The  Rolling 
Stone  and  was  teller  in  the  First  National  Bank;  in  Houston 
he  was  a  reporter  on  The  Daily  Post.  While  in  Houston  he 
was  summoned  back  to  Austin  to  stand  trial  for  the  alleged 
misappropriation  of  $1153.68j  Had  he  gone  he  would 
certainly  have  been  acquitted.  He  protested  his  innocence 
to  the  last,  and  nobody  in  Austin,  so  far  as  I  could  learn, 
believed  or  believes  him  guilty.  The  indictment  was  contra- 
dictory in  itself.  One  item  of  the  charge  was  that  on 
November  12,  1895,  while  acting  as  teller  of  the  Austin  bank, 
he  had  embezzled  $299.60.  But  O.  Henry  had  resigned  his 
position  in  the  wretchedly  managed  institution  early  in 
December,  1894,  and  had  been  living  in  Houston  ever  since. 

There  is  profound  pathos  in  a  note  just  received  from 
Colonel  Edward  M.  House.  Colonel  House  was  born  in 
Houston  but  his  home  was  then  and  still  is  in  Austin:  '*I  have 
always  thought  O.  Henry  was  innocent  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  if  he  had  remained  in  Austin  and  had  stood  his  trial  he 
would  have  been  proved  so.  Judge  E.  P.  Hill,  then  owner  of 
the  Houston  Post  for  which  O.  Henry  was  writing,  enhsted 
my  sympathies  in  his  behalf  and  I  looked  into  the  matter 
closely  enough  to  feel  convinced  that  he  had  done  no  wrong. 
I  had  in  mind  the  year  he  died  to  invite  him  that  autumn 
to  Austin  as  my  guest.  It  was  my  purpose  to  give  him  a 
dinner  and  to  have  present  the  Governor,  the  members  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  and  other  State  officials  in  order  that  an 
expression  of  regard  and  affection  might  be  offered  him. 
Unhappily,  he  died  before  I  could  extend  the  invitation  to 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

bim.  I  wished  also  to  show  some  appreciation  of  the  many 
delightful  hours  he  had  given  me  through  his  stories.  I  con- 
sider him  the  greatest  short  story  writer  the  world  has  pro- 
duced." 

ABut  after  taking  the  train  for  Austin  O.  Henry  was  moved 
by  a  whim  of  the  moment  to  turn  back  at  Hempstead.  He 
passed  through  New  Orleans,  took  a  fruiter  for  Honduras, 
and  remained  in  Central  and  South  America  until  he  learned 
that  his  wife  was  desperately  ill.  He  returned  at  once  to 
Austin  after  an  absence  of  a  half  year,  surrendered  himself 
to  the  authorities,  and  was  sentenced  to  the  federal  prison  in 
Columbus,  Ohio.  He  entered  the  prison  on  April  25,  1898, 
and  was  released  on  July  24,  1901.  It  was  here  that  he  wrote 
his  first  stories  and  assumed  the  now  famous  pen-name  O. 
Henry. 

~  ^  After  a  short  stay  in  Pittsburgh,  Pennsylvania,  where  his 
daughter  and  her  grandparents,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  G.  Roach, 
were  then  living,  he  moved  to  New, York  City.  His  real 
flowering  period  began  in  December,  1903,  when  he  signed  a 
contract  with  The  New  York  World  for  a  story  a  week  at  the 
rate  of  $100  a  story. j  From  March  to  November  of  this  year 
he  had  dabbled  in  verse,  publishing  five  second-rate  poems  in 
Ainslee's  Magazine  under  the  names  of  Howard  Clark,  T.  B. 
Dowd,  and  S.  H.  Peters;  the  latter  name  together  with  that 
of  James  L.  Bliss  he  also  signed  to  several  of  the  stories 
written  in  1903.  •  But  from  now  on  the  short  story  was  his 
central  concern,  his  output  being  sometimes  seven  stories  a 
month.  Only  once  was  he  deflected — ^for  six  months  during 
1909  he  collaborated  with  Mr.  Franklin  P.  Adams  on  a 
musical  comedy  of  Indian  life  to  which  O.  Henry  gave  the 
title  La  from  Pope's  couplet, 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian!  whose  untutor'd  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind. 

Ill  health  set  in  early  in  1907,  though  there  was  never 
any  dechne  in  the  quality  of  the  stories.     The  end  came  on 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

June  5, 1910.  He  was  buried  in  Asheville,  North  Carolina, 
near  the  home  of  his  second  wife,  Miss  Sara  Coleman.  Into 
his  last  story.  Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse,  he  has  woven  the 
initial  stages  of  his  fatal  illness  and  his  brave  but  unavaihng 
fight  for  life  among  the  highlands  of  his  native  State.  His 
grave  is  visited  annually  by  throngs  of  tourists  and  a  nation- 
wide movement  is  already  under  way  to  erect  a  monument 
that  shall  testify  fittingly  if  not  adequately  to  the  admiration 
and  affection  of  his  readers. 

The  volumes  of  O.  Henry's  stories  were  issued  in  the 
following  order:  Cabbages  and  Kings,  1904;  The  Four  Million, 
1906;  TJie  Trimmed  Lamp,  1907;  Heart  of  the  West,  1907;  The 
Voice  of  the  City,  1908;  The  Gentle  Grafter,  1908;  Roads  of 
Destiny,  1909;  Options,  1909;  Strictly  Business,  1910;  Whirl- 
igigs, 1910;  Sixes  and  Sevens,  1911;  Rolling  Stones,  1913; 
Waifs  and  Strays,  1919.  These  are  all  published  by  Double- 
day,  Page  and  Company  except  Options  which  is  published 
by  Harper  and  Brothers. 

Ill 

The  twenty-five  stories  that  follow  are  arranged  chrono- 
logically and  represent  O.  Henry's  chief  regional  interests, 
his  favorite  themes,  his  varying  technique,  his  humor  and 
pathos,  and  the  four  distinctive  stages  of  his  career.  That 
they  are  the  best  twenty-five  stories  that  he  wrote  no  two 
readers  would  probably  agree.  AYith  the  exception  of  per- 
haps six  of  these  stories  substitutes  equally  good  but  hardly 
better  could  probably  be  found.  ^Mien  it  is  remembered 
that  the  ten  lists  of  O.  Henry's  best  ten  stories  (see  page  133) 
resulted  in  a  vote  of  sixty -two  best,  it  can  hardly  be  expected 
that  my  own  choice  of  twenty -five  will  escape  the  dissent  of 
the  critic.  If  censure  be  mingled  with  dissent,  no  harm  will 
be  done;  a  closer  study  of  O.  Henry's  work  will  be  ample 
recompense  for  both  censor  and  censured. 


SELECTED   STORIES   FROM 
O.  HENRY 

THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES 

From  Sij:es  and  Sevens.  First  published  in  Munsey's  Magazine. 
February,  1902,  but  written  in  prison.  The  difference  between  the 
Northerner  and  the  Southerner  occupied  much  of  O.  Henry's 
thought.  Regional  differences,  however,  never  became  sectional 
differences  with  him,  and  characterization  never  passed  into  carica- 
ture. Six  years  later  he  writes  Thimble,  Thimble  from  this  brief 
jotting  in  his  notebook:  "Old  darkey — difference  between  Yankee 
and  Southerner — ^N.  Y."  In  the  mediatorial  character  of  Miss 
Lydia,  as  in  the  attitude  of  O.  Henry  himself,  one  sees  a  forecast  of 
that  larger  and  blended  Americanism  which  combines  the  best  in 
both  Major  Talbot  and  Hargraves  but  without  the  prejudice  of  the 
one  or  the  blind  spot  of  the  other  For  a  characteristic  statement  of 
O.  Henry's  Southernism  see  the  paragraph  (page  228)  in  A  Municipal 
Report,  beginning,  "I  desire  to  interpolate  here  that  I  am  a 
Southerner.    But  I  am  not  one  by  profession  or  trade." 

When  Major  Pendleton  Talbot,  of  Mobile,  sir,  and  his 
daughter,  Miss  Lydia  Talbot,  came  to  Washington  to  reside, 
they  selected  for  a  boarding  place  a  house  that  stood  fifty 
yards  back  from  one  of  the  quietest  avenues.  It  was  an  old- 
fashioned  brick  building,  with  a  portico  upheld  by  tall  white 
pillars.  The  yard  was  shaded  by  stately  locusts  and  elms, 
and  a  catalpa  tree  in  season  rained  its  pink  and  white  blos- 
soms upon  the  grass.  Rows  of  high  box  bushes  lined  the 
fence  and  walks.  It  was  the  Southern  style  and  aspect  of  the 
place  that  pleased  the  eyes  of  the  Talbots. 

In  this  pleasant,  private  boarding  house  they  engaged 


2  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

rooms,  including  a  study  for  Major  Talbot,  who  was  adding 
the  finishing  chapters  to  his  book,  "Anecdotes  and  Remi- 
niscences of  the  Alabama  Army,  Bench,  and  Bar." 

Major  Talbot  was  of  the  old,  old  South.  The  present  day 
had  little  interest  or  excellence  in  his  eyes.  His  mind  lived  in 
that  period  before  the  Civil  War,  when  the  Talbots  o^oied 
thousands  of  acres  of  fine  cotton  land  and  the  slaves  to  till 
them;  when  the  family  mansion  was  the  scene  of  princely 
hospitality,  and  drew  its  guests  from  the  aristocracy  of  the 
South.  Out  of  that  period  he  had  brought  all  its  old  pride 
and  scruples  of  honor,  an  antiquated  and  punctilious  polite- 
ness, and  (you  would  think)  its  wardrobe. 

Such  clothes  were  surely  never  made  w^ithin  fifty  years. 
The  major  was  tall,  but  w^henever  he  made  that  wonderful, 
archaic  genuflexion  he  called  a  bow,  the  corners  of  his  frock 
coat  swept  the  floor.  That  garment  was  a  surprise  even  to 
Washington,  which  has  long  ago  ceased  to  shy  at  the  frocks 
and  broad-brimmed  hats  of  Southern  congressmen.  One  of 
the  boarders  christened  it  a  "Father  Hubbard,"  and  it 
certainly  was  high  in  the  waist  and  full  in  the  skirt. 

But  the  major,  with  all  his  queer  clothes,  his  immense  area 
of  plaited,  raveling  shirt  bosom,  and  the  little  black  string 
tie  with  the  bow  always  slipping  on  one  side,  both  was  smiled 
at  and  liked  in  Mrs.  Vardeman's  select  boarding  house. 
Some  of  the  young  department  clerks  would  often  "string 
him,"  as  they  called  it,  getting  him  started  upon  the  subject 
dearest  to  him — the  traditions  and  history  of  his  beloved 
Southland.  During  his  talks  he  would  quote  freely  from  the 
"Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences."  But  they  were  very  care- 
ful not  to  let  him  see  their  designs,  for  in  spite  of  his  sixty- 
eight  years,  he  could  make  the  boldest  of  them  uncomfortable 
under  the  steady  regard  of  his  piercing  gray  eyes. 

Miss  Lydia  was  a  plump,  little  old  maid  of  thirty -five,  with 
smoothly  drawn,  tightly  twisted  hair  that  made  her  look  still 
older.  Old  fashioned,  too,  she  was;  but  ante-bellum  glory 
did  not  radiate  from  her  as  it  did  from  the  major.  She 
possessed  a  thrifty  common  sense;  and  it  was  she  who  handled 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  3 

the  finances  of  the  family,  and  met  all  comers  when  there  were 
bills  to  pay.  The  major  regarded  board  bills  and  wash  bills 
as  contemptible  nuisances.  They  kept  coming  in  so  per- 
sistently and  so  often.  Why,  the  major  wanted  to  know, 
could  they  not  be  filed  and  paid  in  a  lump  sum  at  some  con- 
venient period — say  when  the  "Anecdotes  and  Reminis- 
cences "  had  been  published  and  paid  for?  Miss  Lydia  would 
calmly  go  on  with  her  sewing  and  say,  "We'll  pay  as  we  go  as 
long  as  the  money  lasts,  and  then  perhaps  they'll  have  to 
lump  it." 

Most  of  Mrs.  Vardeman's  boarders  were  away  during  the 
day,  being  nearly  all  department  clerks  and  business  men;  but 
there  was  one  of  them  who  was  about  the  house  a  great  deal 
from  morning  to  night.  This  was  a  young  man  named  Henry 
Hopkins  Hargraves — every  one  in  the  house  addressed  him  by 
his  full  name— who  was  engaged  at  one  of  the  popular  vaude- 
ville theatres.  Vaudeville  has  risen  to  such  a  respectable 
plane  in  the  last  few  years,  and  Mr.  Hargraves  was  such  a 
modest  and  well-mannered  person,  that  Mrs.  Vardeman 
could  find  no  objection  to  enrolling  him  upon  her  list  of 
boarders. 

At  the  theatre  Hargraves  was  known  as  an  all-round 
dialect  comedian,  having  a  large  repertoire  of  German,  Irish, 
Swede,  and  black-face  specialties.  But  Mr.  Hargraves  was 
ambitious,  and  often  spoke  of  his  great  desire  to  succeed  in 
legitimate  comedy. 

This  young  man  appeared  to  conceive  a  strong  fancy  for 
Major  Talbot.  Whenever  that  gentleman  would  begin  his 
Southern  reminiscences,  or  repeat  some  of  the  liveUest  of  the 
anecdotes,  Hargraves  could  always  be  found,  the  most  at- 
tentive among  his  listeners. 

For  a  time  the  major  showed  an  inchnation  to  discourage 
the  advances  of  the  "play  actor,"  as  he  privately  termed  him; 
but  soon  the  young  man's  agreeable  manner  and  indubitable 
appreciation  of  the  old  gentleman's  stories  completely  won 
him  over. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  two  were  like  old  chums.     The 


4  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

major  set  apart  each  afternoon  to  read  to  him  the  manuscript 
of  his  book.  During  the  anecdotes  Hargraves  never  failed  to 
laugh  at  exactly  the  right  point.  The  major  was  moved  to 
declare  to  Miss  Lydia  one  day  that  young  Hargraves  pos- 
sessed remarkable  perception  and  a  gratifying  respect  for  the 
old  regime.  And  when  it  came  to  talking  of  those  old  days — 
if  Major  Talbot  liked  to  talk,  INIr.  Hargraves  was  entranced  to 
listen. 

Like  almost  all  old  people  who  talk  of  the  past,  the  major 
loved  to  linger  over  details.  In  describing  the  splendid, 
almost  royal,  days  of  the  old  planters,  he  would  hesitate  until 
he  had  recalled  the  name  of  the  Negro  who  held  his  horse,  or 
the  exact  date  of  certain  minor  happenings,  or  the  number  of 
bales  of  cotton  raised  in  such  a  year;  but  Hargraves  never 
grew  impatient  or  lost  interest.  On  the  contrary,  he  would 
advance  questions  on  a  variety  of  subjects  connected  with  the 
life  of  that  time,  and  he  never  failed  to  extract  ready  replies. 

The  fox  hunts,  the  'possum  suppers,  the  hoe  dowTis  and 
jubilees  in  the  Negro  quarters,  the  banquets  in  the  plantation- 
house  hall,  when  invitations  w^ent  for  fifty  miles  around; 
the  occasional  feuds  with  the  neighboring  gentry;  the  major's 
duel  with  Rathbone  Culbertson  about  Ejtty  Chalmers,  who 
afterward  married  a  Thwaite  of  South  Carolina;  and  private 
yacht  races  for  fabulous  sums  on  Mobile  Bay;  the  quaint 
beliefs,  improvident  habits,  and  loyal  virtues  of  the  old  slaves 
— all  these  were  subjects  that  held  both  the  major  and  Har- 
graves absorbed  for  hours  at  a  time. 

Sometimes,  at  night,  when  the  young  man  would  be  coming 
upstairs  to  his  room  after  his  turn  at  the  theatre  was  over,  the 
major  would  appear  at  the  door  of  his  study  and  beckon 
archly  to  him.  Going  in,  Hargraves  would  find  a  little  table 
set  with  a  decanter,  sugar  bowl,  fruit,  and  a  big  bunch  of 
fresh  green  mint. 

"It  occurred  to  me,"  the  major  would  begin — he  was 
always  ceremonious — "that  perhaps  you  might  have  found 
your  duties  at  the — at  your  place  of  occupation — sufiBciently 
arduous  to  enable  you,  Mr.  Hargraves,  to  appreciate  what  the 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  5 

poet  might  well  have  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote,  'tired 
Nature's  sweet  restorer,'— one  of  our  Southern  juleps." 

It  was  a  fascination  to  Hargraves  to  watch  him  make  it. 
He  took  rank  among  artists  when  he  began,  and  he  never 
varied  the  process.  With  what  delicacy  he  bruised  the  mint; 
with  what  exquisite  nicety  he  estimated  the  ingredients;  with 
what  solicitous  care  he  capped  the  compound  with  the  scarlet 
fruit  glowing  against  the  dark  green  fringe!  And  then  the 
hospitality  and  grace  with  which  he  offered  it,  after  the 
selected  oat  straws  had  been  plunged  into  its  tinkling  depths! 

After  about  four  months  in  Washington,  Miss  Lydia  dis- 
covered one  morning  that  they  were  almost  without  money. 
The  "Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences"  was  completed,  but 
pubhshers  had  not  jumped  at  the  collected  gems  of  Alabama 
sense  and  wit.  The  rental  of  a  small  house  which  they  still 
owned  in  Mobile  was  two  months  in  arrears.  Their  board 
money  for  the  month  would  be  due  in  three  days.  Miss 
Lydia  called  her  father  to  a  consultation. 

"No  money? "  said  he  with  a  surprised  look.  "It  is  quite 
annoying  to  be  called  on  so  frequently  for  these  petty  sums. 

Really,  I "  ,       , 

The  major  searched  his  pockets.  He  found  only  a  two- 
dollar  bill,  which  he  returned  to  his  vest  pocket. 

"I  must  attend  to  this  at  once,  Lydia,"  he  said.  "Kindly 
get  me  my  umbrella  and  I  will  go  down  town  immediately. 
The  congressman  from  our  district,  General  Fulghum,  assured 
me  some  days  ago  that  he  would  use  his  influence  to  get  my 
book  published  at  an  early  date.  I  will  go  to  his  hotel  at  once 
and  see  what  arrangement  has  been  made." 

With  a  sad  little  smile  Miss  Lydia  watched  him  button  his 
"Father  Hubbard"  and  depart,  pausing  at  the  door,  as  he 
always  did,  to  bow  profoundly. 

That  evening,  at  dark,  he  returned.  It  seemed  that 
Congressman  Fulghum  had  seen  the  publisher  who  had  the 
major's  manuscript  for  reading.  That  person  had  said  that 
if  the  anecdotes,  etc.,  were  carefully  pruned  down  about  one 
haK,  in  order  to  eliminate  the  sectional  and  class  prejudice 


6  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

with  which  the  book  was  dyed  from  end  to  end,  he  might, 
consider  its  pubhcation. 

The  major  was  in  a  white  heat  of  anger,  but  regained  his 
equanimity,  according  to  his  code  of  manners,  as  soon  as  he 
was  in  Miss  Lydia's  presence. 

"We  must  have  money,"  said  Miss  Lydia,  with  a  httle 
wrinkle  above  her  nose.  "Give  me  the  two  dollars,  and  I 
will  telegraph  to  Uncle  Ralph  for  some  to-night." 

The  major  drew  a  small  envelope  from  his  upper  vest 
pocket  and  tossed  it  on  the  table. 

"Perhaps  it  was  injudicious,"  he  said  mildly,  "but  the  sum 
was  so  merely  nominal  that  I  bought  tickets  to  the  theatre 
to-night.  It's  a  new  war  drama,  Lydia.  I  thought  you 
would  be  pleased  to  witness  its  first  production  in  Washington. 
I  am  told  that  the  South  has  very  fair  treatment  in  the  play. 
I  confess  I  should  like  to  see  the  performance  myself." 

Miss  Lydia  threw  up  her  hands  in  silent  despair. 

Still,  as  the  tickets  were  bought,  they  might  as  well  be  used. 
So  that  evening,  as  they  sat  in  the  theatre  listening  to  the 
lively  overture,  even  Miss  Lydia  was  minded  to  relegate  their 
troubles,  for  the  hour,  to  second  place.  The  major,  in  spot- 
less linen,  w^th  his  extraordinary  coat  showing  only  where  it 
was  closely  buttoned,  and  his  white  hair  smoothly  reached, 
looked  really  fine  and  distinguished.  The  curtain  went  up 
on  the  first  act  of  "A  Magnolia  Flower,"  revealing  a  typical 
Southern  plantation  scene.  Major  Talbot  betrayed  some 
interest. 

"Oh,  see!"  exclaimed  Miss  Lydia,  nudging  his  arm,  and 
pointing  to  her  programme. 

The  major  put  on  his  glasses  and  read  the  line  in  the  cast  of 
characters  that  her  finger  indicated. 

Col.  Webster  Calhoun.     .     .     .     H.  Hopkins  Hargraves. 

"It's  our  Mr.  Hargraves,"  said  Miss  Lydia.  "It  must  be 
his  first  appearance  in  what  he  calls  *the  legitimate.'  I'm 
so  glad  for  him." 

Not  until  the  second  act  did  Col.  Webster  Calhoun  appear 
upon  the  stage.     When  he  made  his  entry  Major  Talbot  gave 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  7 

an  audible  sniff,  glared  at  him,  and  seemed  to  freeze  solid. 
Miss  Lydia  uttered  a  little,  ambiguous  squeak  and  crumpled 
her  programme  in  her  hand.  For  Colonel  Calhoun  was  made 
up  as  nearly  resembling  Major  Talbot  as  one  pea  does 
another.  The  long,  thin  white  hair,  curly  at  the  ends,  the 
aristocratic  beak  of  a  nose,  the  crumpled,  wide,  raveling  shirt 
front,  the  string  tie,  with  the  bow  nearly  under  one  ear,  were 
almost  exactly  duplicated.  And  then,  to  clinch  the  imitation, 
he  wore  the  twin  to  the  major's  supposed  to  be  unparalleled 
coat.  High-collared,  baggy,  empire-waisted,  ample-skirted, 
hanging  a  foot  lower  in  front  than  behind,  the  garment  could 
have  been  designed  from  no  other  pattern.  From  then  on, 
the  major  and  Miss  Lydia  sat  bewitched,  and  saw  the 
counterfeit  presentment  of  a  haughty  Talbot  "dragged,"  as 
the  major  afterward  expressed  it,  "through  the  slanderous 
mire  of  a  corrupt  stage." 

Mr.  Hargraves  had  used  his  opportunities  well.  He  had 
caught  the  major's  little  idiosyncrasies  of  speech,  accent,  and 
intonation  and  his  pompous  courtliness  to  perfection — ex- 
aggerating all  to  the  purpose  of  the  stage.  When  he  per- 
formed that  marvellous  bow  that  the  major  fondly  imagined 
to  be  the  pink  of  all  salutations,  the  audience  sent  forth  a 
sudden  round  of  hearty  applause. 

Miss  Lydia  sat  immovable,  not  daring  to  glance  toward  her 
father.  Sometimes  her  hand  next  to  him  would  be  laid 
against  her  cheek,  as  if  to  conceal  the  smile  which,  in  spite  of 
her  disapproval,  she  could  not  entirely  suppress. 

The  culmination  of  Hargraves's  audacious  imitation  took 
place  in  the  third  act.  The  scene  is  where  Colonel  Calhoun 
entertains  a  few  of  the  neighboring  planters  in  his  "den." 

Standing  at  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  with  his 
friends  grouped  about  him,  he  delivers  that  inimitable, 
rambling,  character  monologue  so  famous  in  "A  Magnolia 
Flower,"  at  the  same  time  that  he  deftly  makes  juleps  for  the 
party. 

Major  Talbot,  sitting  quietly,  but  white  with  indignation, 
heard  his  best  stories  retold,  his  pet  theories  and  hobbies  ad- 


8  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

vanced  and  expanded,  and  the  dream  of  the  **  Anecdotes  and 
Reminiscences"  served,  exaggerated  and  garbled.  His 
favorite  narrative — that  of  his  duel  with  Rathbone  Cul- 
bertson — was  not  omitted,  and  it  was  delivered  with  more 
fire,  egotism,  and  gusto  than  the  major  himself  put  into  it. 

The  monologue  concluded  with  a  quaint,  delicious,  witty- 
little  lecture  on  the  art  of  concocting  a  julep,  illustrated  by 
the  act.  Here  Major  Talbot's  delicate  but  sho\\y  science  was 
reproduced  to  a  hair's  breadth — from  his  dainty  handling  of 
the  fragrant  weed — "the  one-thousandth  part  of  a  grain  too 
much  pressure,  gentlemen,  and  you  extract  the  bitterness,  in- 
stead of  the  aroma,  of  this  heaven-bestowed  plant" — to  his 
solicitous  selection  of  the  oaten  straws. 

At  the  close  of  the  scene  the  audience  raised  a  tumultuous 
roar  of  appreciation.  The  portrayal  of  the  type  was  so  exact, 
so  sure  and  thorough,  that  the  leading  characters  in  the  play 
were  forgotten.  After  repeated  calls,  Hargraves  came  before 
the  curtain  and  bowed,  his  rather  boyish  face  bright  and 
flushed  with  the  knowledge  of  success. 

At  last  Miss  Lydia  turned  and  looked  at  the  major.  His 
thin  nostrils  were  working  like  the  gills  of  a  fish.  He  laid 
both  shaking  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair  to  rise. 

'*We  will  go,  Lydia,"  he  said,  chokingly.  "This  is  an 
abominable — desecration." 

Before  he  could  rise,  she  pulled  him  back  into  his  seat. 

"We  will  stay  it  out,"  she  declared.  "Do  you  want  to 
advertise  the  copy  by  exhibiting  the  original  coat?"  So  they 
remained  to  the  end. 

Hargraves's  success  must  have  kept  him  up  late  that  night, 
for  neither  at  the  breakfast  nor  at  the  dinner  table  did  he 
appear. 

About  three  in  the  afternoon  he  tapped  at  the  door  of 
Major  Talbot's  study.  The  major  opened  it,  and  Hargraves 
walked  in  with  his  hands  full  of  the  morning  papers — too  full 
of  his  triumph  to  notice  anything  unusual  in  the  major's  de- 
meanor. 

"I  put  it  all  over  'em  last  night,  major,"  he  began  ex- 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  9 

ultantly.     "I  had  my  inning,  and,  I  think,  scored.     Here's 
what  the  Post  says: 

His  conception  andportrayal  of  the  old-tiroe  Southern  colonel,  with 
his  absurd  grandiloquence,  his  eccentric  garb,  his  quaint  idioms  and 
phrases,  his  moth-eaten  pride  of  family,  and  his  really  kind  heart, 
fastidious  sense  of  honor,  and  lovable  simplicity,  is  the  best  deline- 
ation of  a  character  role  on  the  boards  to-day.  The  coat  worn  by 
Colonel  Calhoun  is  itself  nothing  less  than  an  evolution  of  genius. 
Mr.  Hargraves  has  captured  his  public. 


"How  does  that  sound,  major,  for  a  first  nighter.^" 

"I  had  the  honor" — the  major's  voice  sounded  ominously 
frigid — "of  witnessing  your  very  remarkable  performance, 
sir,  last  night." 

Hargraves  looked  disconcerted. 

"You  were  there .^  I  didn't  know  you  ever — I  didn't  know 
you  cared  for  the  theatre.  Oh,  I  say.  Major  Talbot,"  he 
exclaimed  frankly,  "  don't  you  be  offended.  I  admit  I  did  get 
a  lot  of  pointers  from  you  that  helped  me  out  wonderfully 
in  the  part.  But  it's  a  type,  you  know — not  individual. 
The  way  the  audience  caught  on  shows  that.  Half  the 
patrons  of  that  theatre  are  Southerners.  They  recognized 
it." 

"Mr.  Hargraves,"  said  the  major,  who  had  remained 
standing,  "you  have  put  upon  me  an  unpardonable  insult. 
You  have  burlesqued  my  person,  grossly  betrayed  my 
confidence,  and  misused  my  hospitality.  If  I  thought  you 
possessed  the  faintest  conception  of  what  is  the  sign  manual 
of  a  gentleman,  or  what  is  due  one,  I  would  call  you  out,  sir, 
old  as  I  am.     I  will  ask  you  to  leave  the  room,  sir." 

The  actor  appeared  to  be  slightly  bewildered,  and  seemed 
hardly  to  take  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  old  gentleman's 
words. 

"I  am  truly  sorry  you  took  offence,"  he  said  regretfully. 
"Up  here  we  don't  look  at  things  just  as  you  people  do. 
I  know  men  who  would  buy  out  half  the  house  to  have 


10  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

their  personality  put  on  the  stage  so  the  public  would 
recognize  it." 

"They  are  not  from  Alabama,  sir,"  said  the  major 
haughtily. 

"Perhaps  not.  I  have  a  pretty  good  memory,  major;  let 
me  quote  a  few  lines  from  your  book.  In  response  to  a  toast 
at  a  banquet  given  in — Milledgeville,  I  believe — you  uttered 
and  intend  to  have  printed,  these  words: 

The  Northern  man  is  utterly  without  sentiment  or  warmth  except 
in  so  far  as  the  feelings  may  be  turned  to  his  o-wti  commercial  profit. 
He  will  suffer  without  resentment  any  imputation  cast  upon  the 
honor  of  himself  or  his  loved  ones  that  does  not  bear  with  it  the 
consequence  of  pecuniary  loss.  In  his  charity,  he  gives  with  a 
liberal  hand;  but  it  must  be  heralded  with  the  trumpet  and  chroni- 
cled in  brass. 

"Do  you  think  that  picture  is  fairer  than  the  one  you  saw 
of  Colonel  Calhoun  last  night?" 

"The  description,"  said  the  major  frowning,  "is — not 
without  grounds.  Some  exag — ^latitude  must  be  allowed  in 
public  speaking." 

"And  in  public  acting,"  replied  Hargraves. 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  persisted  the  major,  unrelenting. 
"It  was  a  personal  caricature.  I  positively  decline  to  over- 
look it,  sir." 

"Major  Talbot,"  said  Hargraves,  with  a  winning  smile, 
"  I  wish  you  would  understand  me.  I  want  you  to  know  that 
I  never  dreamed  of  insulting  you.  In  my  profession,  all  life 
belongs  to  me.  I  take  what  I  want,  and  what  I  can,  and 
return  it  over  the  footlights.  Now,  if  you  will,  let's  let  it  go 
at  that.  I  came  in  to  see  you  about  something  else.  We've 
been  pretty  good  friends  for  some  months,  and  I'm  going  to 
take  the  risk  of  offending  you  again.  I  know  you  are  hard 
up  for  money — never  mind  how  I  found  out;  a  boarding  house 
is  no  place  to  keep  such  matters  secret — and  I  want  you  to  let 
me  help  you  out  of  the  pinch.  I've  been  there  often  enough 
myself.     I've  been  getting  a  fair  salary  all  the  season,  and 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  11 

I've  saved  some  money.     You're  welcome  to  a  couple  hun- 
dred— or  even  more — until  you  get " 

"Stop!"  commanded  the  major,  with  his  arm  outstretched. 
"  It  seems  that  my  book  didn't  lie,  after  all.  You  think  your 
money  salve  will  heal  all  the  hurts  of  honor.  Under  no 
circumstances  would  I  accept  a  loan  from  a  casual  acquaint- 
ance; and  as  to  you,  sir,  I  would  starve  before  I  would  con- 
sider your  insulting  offer  of  a  financial  adjustment  of  the 
circumstances  we  have  discussed.  I  beg  to  repeat  my  request 
relative  to  your  quitting  the  apartment." 

Hargraves  took  his  departure  without  another  word.  He 
also  eft  the  house  the  same  day,  moving,  as  Mrs.  Vardeman 
explained  at  the  supper  tab  e,  nearer  the  vicinity  of  the  down- 
town theatre,  where  "A  Magnolia  Flower"  was  booked  for  a 
week's  run. 

Critical  was  the  situation  with  Major  Talbot  and  Miss 
Lydia.  There  was  no  one  in  Washington  to  whom  the 
major's  scruples  allowed  him  to  apply  for  a  loan.  Miss  Lydia 
wrote  a  letter  to  Uncle  Ralph,  but  it  was  doubtful  whether 
that  relative's  constricted  affairs  would  permit  him  to  furnish 
help.  The  major  was  forced  to  make  an  apologetic  address 
to  Mrs.  Vardeman  regarding  the  delayed  payment  for  board, 
referring  to  "delinquent  rentals"  and  "delayed  remittances" 
in  a  rather  confused  strain. 

Deliverance  came  from  an  entirely  unexpected  source. 

Late  one  afternoon  the  door  maid  came  up  and  announced 
an  old  colored  man  who  wanted  to  see  Major  Talbot.  The 
major  asked  that  he  be  sent  up  to  his  study.  ^  Soon  an  old 
darkey  appeared  in  the  doorway,  with  his  hat  in  hand,  bow- 
ing, and  scraping  with  one  clumsy  foot.  He  was  quite 
decently  dressed  in  a  baggy  suit  of  black.  His  big,  coarse 
shoes  shone  with  a  metallic  lustre  suggestive  of  stove  polish. 
His  bushy  wool  was  gray— almost  white.  After  middle  life, 
it  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  age  of  a  Negro.  This  one  might 
have  seen  as  many  years  as  had  Major  Talbot. 

"I  be  bound  you  don't  know  me,  Mars'  Pendleton,"  were 
his  first  words. 


12  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

The  major  rose  and  came  forward  at  the  old,  famiHar  style 
of  address.  It  was  one  of  the  old  plantation  darkeys  without 
a  doubt;  but  they  had  been  widely  scattered,  and  he  could 
not  recall  the  voice  or  face. 

"I  don't  believe  I  do,"  he  said  kindly — "unless  you  wdll 
assist  my  memory." 

"Don't  you  'member  Cindy's  Mose,  Mars'  Pendleton, 
what  'migrated  'mediately  after  de  war?  " 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  major,  rubbing  his  forehead 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  He  loved  to  recall  everything 
connected  with  those  beloved  days.  "Cindy's  Mose,"  he 
reflected.  "You  worked  among  the  horses — breaking  the 
colts.  Yes,  I  remember  now.  After  the  surrender,  you  took 
the  name  of — don't  prompt  me — Mitchell,  and  went  to  the 
West — to  Nebraska." 

"Yassir,  yassir," — the  old  man's  face  stretched  with  a 
delighted  grin — "dat's  him,  dat's  it.  Newbraska.  Dat's 
me — Mose  Mitchell.  Old  Uncle  Mose  Mitchell,  dey  calls  me 
now.  Old  mars',  your  pa,  gimme  a  pah  of  dem  mule  colts 
when  I  lef  fur  to  staht  me  goin'  with.  You  'member  dem 
colts.  Mars'  Pendleton?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  recall  the  colts,"  said  the  major.  "You 
know  I  was  married  the  first  year  of  the  war  and  living  at  the 
old  Follinsbee  place.  But  sit  down,  sit  down.  Uncle  Mose. 
I'm  glad  to  see  you.     I  hope  you  have  prospered." 

Uncle  Mose  took  a  chair  and  laid  his  hat  carefully  on  the 
floor  beside  it. 

"Yassir;  of  late  I  done  mouty  famous.  WTien  I  first  got  to 
Newbraska,  dey  folks  come  all  roun'  me  to  see  dem  mule 
colts.  Dey  ain't  see  no  mules  like  dem  in  Newbraska.  I 
sold  dem  mules  for  three  hundred  dollars.  Yassir — three 
hundred. 

"Den  I  open  a  blacksmith  shop,  suh,  and  made  some 
money  and  bought  some  Ian'.  Me  and  my  old  'oman  done 
raised  up  seb'm  chillun,  and  all  doin'  well  'cept  two  of  'em 
what  died.  Fo'  year  ago  a  railroad  come  along  and  staht  a 
town  slam  ag'inst  my  Ian',  and,  suh.  Mars'  Pendleton,  Uncle 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  13 

Mose  am  worth  leb*m  thousand  dollars  in  money,  property, 
and  Ian'." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  major  heartily.  "Glad  to 
hear  it." 

"And  dat  little  baby  of  yo'n,  Mars'  Pendleton — one  what 
you  name  Miss  Lyddy — I  be  bound  dat  little  tad  done 
growed  up  tell  nobody  wouldn't  know  her." 

The  major  stepped  to  the  door  and  called:  "Lydia,  dear, 
will  you  come?" 

Miss  Lydia,  looking  quite  grown  up  and  a  little  worried, 
came  in  from  her  room. 

"Dar,  now!  WTiat'd  I  tell  you?  I  kno wed  dat  baby  done 
be  plum  growed  up.  You  don't  'member  Uncle  Mose, 
child?" 

"This  is  Aunt  Cindy's  Mose,  Lydia,"  explained  the  major. 
"He  left  Sunny  mead  for  the  West  when  you  were  two  years 
old." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Lydia,  "I  can  hardly  be  expected  to 
remember  you.  Uncle  Mose,  at  that  age.  And,  as  you  say, 
I'm  'plum  growed  up, '  and  was  a  blessed  long  time  ago.  But 
I'm  glad  to  see  you,  even  if  I  can't  remember  you." 

And  she  was.  And  so  was  the  major.  Something  alive 
and  tangible  had  come  to  link  them  with  the  happy  past. 
The  three  sat  and  talked  over  the  olden  times,  the  major  and 
Uncle  Mose  correcting  or  prompting  each  other  as  they  re- 
viewed the  plantation  scenes  and  days. 

The  major  inquired  what  the  old  man  was  doing  so  far 
from  his  home. 

"Uncle  Mose  am  a  delicate,"  he  explained,  "to  de  grand 
Baptis'  convention  in  dis  city.  I  never  preached  none,  but 
bein'  a  residin'  elder  in  de  church,  and  able  fur  to  pay  my 
own  expenses,  dey  sent  me  along." 

"And  how  did  you  know  we  were  in  Washington?"  in- 
quired Miss  Lydia. 

"Dey's  a  cuUud  man  works  in  de  hotel  whar  I  stops,  what 
comes  from  Mobile.  He  told  me  he  seen  Mars'  Pendleton 
comin'  outen  dish  here  house  one  mawnin'. 


14  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"What  I  come  fur,"  continued  Uncle  Mose,  reaching  into 
his  pocket — "besides  de  sight  of  home  folks — was  to  pay 
Mars'  Pendleton  what  I  owes  him." 

"0^'e  me?"  said  the  major,  in  surprise. 

"Yassir— three  hundred  dollars."  He  handed  the  major  a 
roll  of  bills.  "AMien  I  lef  old  mars'  says:  'Take  dem  mule 
colts,  Mose,  and,  if  it  be  so  you  gits  able,  pay  for  'em'.  Yassir 
— dem  was  his  words.  De  war  had  done  lef  old  mars'  po' 
hisself.  Old  mars'  bein'  'long  ago  dead,  de  debt  descends  to 
Mars'  Pendleton.  Three  hundred  dollars.  Uncle  Mose  is 
plenty  able  to  pay  now.  When  dat  railroad  buy  my  Ian'  I 
laid  off  to  pay  fur  dem  mules.  Count  de  money.  Mars' 
Pendleton.     Dat's  what  I  sold  dem  mules  fur.     Yassir." 

Tears  were  in  Major  Talbot's  eyes.  He  took  Uncle  Mose's 
hand  and  laid  his  other  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Dear,  faithful,  old  servitor,"  he  said  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
"I  don't  mind  saying  to  you  that  'Mars'  Pendleton'  spent  his 
last  dollar  in  the  world  a  week  ago.  We  will  accept  this 
money.  Uncle  Mose,  since,  in  a  way,  it  is  a  sort  of  payment,  as 
well  as  a  token  of  the  loyalty  and  devotion  of  the  old  regime. 
Lydia,  my  dear,  take  the  money.  You  are  better  fitted  than 
I  to  manage  its  expenditure." 

"Take  it,  honey,"  said  Uncle  Mose.  "Hit  belongs  to  you. 
Hit's  Talbot  money." 

After  Uncle  Mose  had  gone,  Miss  Lydia  had  a  good  cry — 
for  joy;  and  the  major  turned  his  face  to  a  corner,  and  smoked 
his  clay  pipe  volcanically. 

The  succeeding  days  saw  the  Talbots  restored  to  peace  and 
ease.  Miss  Lydia's  face  lost  its  worried  look.  The  major 
appeared  in  a  new  frock  coat,  in  which  he  looked  like  a  wax 
figure  personifying  the  memory  of  his  golden  age.  Another 
publisher  who  read  the  manuscript  of  the  "Anecdotes  and 
Reminiscences"  thought  that,  with  a  little  retouching  and 
toning  down  of  the  high  lights,  he  could  make  a  really  bright 
and  salable  volume  of  it.  Altogether,  the  situation  was  com- 
fortable, and  not  without  the  touch  of  hope  that  is  often 
sweeter  than  arrived  blessings. 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  15 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  their  piece  of  good  luck,  a 
maid  brought  a  letter  for  Miss  Lydia  to  her  room.  The 
postmark  showed  that  it  was  from  New  York.  Not  knowing 
any  one  there.  Miss  Lydia,  in  a  mild  flutter  of  wonder,  sat 
down  by  her  table  and  opened  the  letter  with  her  scissors. 
This  was  what  she  read : 

Dear  !Miss  Talbot: 

I  thought  you  might  be  glad  to  learn  of  my  good  fortune.  I  have 
received  and  accepted  an  offer  of  two  hundred  dollars  per  week  by  a 
New  York  stock  company  to  play  Colonel  Calhoun  in  "A  Magnolia 
Flower." 

There  is  something  else  I  wanted  you  to  know.  I  guess  you'd 
better  not  tell  Major  Talbot.  I  was  anxious  to  make  him  some 
amends  for  the  great  help  he  was  to  me  in  studying  the  part,  and  for 
the  bad  humor  he  was  in  about  it.  He  refused  to  let  me,  so  I  did  it 
anyhow.     I  could  easily  spare  the  three  hundred. 

Sincerely  yours, 

H.  Hopkins  Hargraves. 
P.  S.    How  did  I  play  Uncle  Mose.? 

Major  Talbot,  passing  through  the  hall,  saw  Miss  Lydia's 
door  open  and  stopped. 

"Any  mail  for  us  this  morning,  Lydia,  dear?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Lydia  slid  the  letter  beneath  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

"The  Morning  Chronicle  came,"  she  said  promptly.  "It*S 
on  the  table  in  your  study." 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY 

From  Roads  of  Destiny.  First  published  in  Ainslee's  Magazine, 
April,  1903.  This  story  is  unique  among  O.  Henry's  works.  It 
returns  a  studied  and  philosophic  "No"  to  the  stanzaed  question 
that  introduces  it.  The  first  adventure,  "The  Left  Branch,"  shows 
the  influence,  I  think,  of  The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door,  by  Stevenson; 
but  the  story  as  a  whole  suggests  Poe  in  its  connective  repetitions, 
Dumas  in  its  swashbuckling,  Maupassant  in  its  detachment,  and 
Omar  Khay^^am  in  its  fatalism.  It  is  even  more  fatalistic  than 
Omar;  for  not  only  is  death  preordained  and  inescapable,  whichever 
road  David  takes,  but  death  from  the  bullet  of  the  same  pistol.  In 
sheer  but  impersonal  technique  O.  Henry  never  surpassed  this  story. 
In  The  Enchanted  Kiss  (February,  1904),  the  same  theme  is  put 
again  upon  the  same  triple  framework;  but  Fate  and  Tansey  pulled 
different  ways.  For  O.  Henry's  final  treatment  of  fatalism,  see  The 
Roads  We  Take  (page  77). 

I  go  to  seek  on  many  roads 

\NTiat  is  to  be. 
True  heart  and  strong,  with  love  to  light- 
Will  they  not  bear  me  in  the  fight 
To  order,  shun  or  wield  or  mould 

My  Destiny? 

Unpublished  Poems  of  David  Mignot. 

The  song  was  over.  The  words  were  David's;  the  air,  one 
of  the  countryside.  The  company  about  the  inn  table  ap- 
plauded heartily,  for  the  young  poet  paid  for  the  wine.  Only 
the  notary,  M.  Papineau,  shook  his  head  a  little  at  the  lines, 
for  he  was  a  man  of  books,  and  he  had  not  drunk  with  the 
rest. 

David  went  out  into  the  village  street,  where  the  night  air 
drove  the  wine  vapor  from  his  head.     And  then  he  remem- 

16 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  17 

bt?red  that  he  and  Yvonne  had  quarreled  that  day,  and  that 
he  had  resolved  to  leave  his  home  that  night  to  seek  fame  and 
honor  in  the  great  world  outside. 

"When  my  poems  are  on  every  man's  tongue,"  he  told  him- 
self, in  a  fine  exhilaration,  "she  will,  perhaps,  think  of  the 
hard  words  she  spoke  this  day." 

Except  the  roysterers  in  the  tavern,  the  village  folk  were 
abed.  David  crept  softly  into  his  room  in  the  shed  of  his 
father's  cottage  and  made  a  bundle  of  his  small  store  of  cloth- 
ing. With  this  upon  a  staff,  he  set  his  face  outward  upon  the 
road  that  ran  from  Vernoy. 

He  passed  his  father's  herd  of  sheep  huddled  in  their 
nightly  pen — the  sheep  he  herded  daily,  leaving  them  to 
scatter  while  he  wrote  verses  on  scraps  of  paper.  He  saw  a 
light  yet  shining  in  Yvonne's  window,  and  a  weakness  shook 
his  purpose  of  a  sudden.  Perhaps  that  light  meant  that  she 

rued,  sleepless,  her  anger,  and  that  morning  might But, 

no!  His  decision  was  made.  Vernoy  was  no  place  for  him. 
Not  one  soul  there  could  share  his  thoughts.  Out  along  that 
road  lay  his  fate  and  his  future. 

Three  leagues  across  the  dim,  moonlit  champaign  ran  the 
road,  straight  as  a  ploughman's  furrow.  It  was  believed  in 
the  village  that  the  road  ran  to  Paris,  at  least;  and  this  name 
the  poet  whispered  often  to  himseK  as  he  walked.  Never  so 
far  from  Vernoy  had  David  traveled  before. 

THE    LEFT    BRANCH 

Three  leagues,  then,  the  road  ran,  and  turned  into  a  puzzle. 
It  joined  with  another  and  a  larger  road  at  right  angles.  David 
stood,  uncertain,  for  a  while,  and  then  took  the  road  to  the 
left 

Upon  this  more  important  highway  were,  imprinted  in  the 
dust,  wheel  tracks  left  by  the  recent  passage  of  some  vehicle. 
Some  half  an  hour  later  these  traces  were  verified  by  the  sight 
of  a  ponderous  carriage  mired  in  a  little  brook  at  the  bottom 
of  a  steep  hill.     The  driver  and  postilions  were  shouting  and 


18  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

tugging  at  the  horses'  bridles.  On  the  road  at  one  side  stood 
a  huge,  black-clothed  man  and  a  slender  lady  wrapped  in  a 
long,  light  cloak. 

David  saw  the  lack  of  skill  in  the  efforts  of  the  servants. 
He  quietly  assumed  control  of  the  work.  He  directed  the 
outriders  to  cease  their  clamor  at  the  horses  and  to  exercise 
their  strength  upon  the  wheels.  The  driver  alone  urged  the 
animals  with  his  familiar  voice;  David  himself  heaved  a 
powerful  shoulder  at  the  rear  of  the  carriage,  and  with  one 
harmonious  tug  the  great  vehicle  rolled  up  on  solid  ground. 
The  outriders  climbed  to  their  places, 

David  stood  for  a  moment  upon  one  foot.  The  huge  gen- 
tleman waved  a  hand.  *'You  will  enter  the  carriage,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  large,  like  himself,  but  smoothed  by  art  and 
habit.  Obedience  belonged  in  the  path  of  such  a  voice. 
Brief  as  was  the  young  poet's  hesitation,  it  was  cut  shorter 
still  by  a  renewal  of  the  command.  David's  foot  went  to  the 
step.  In  the  darkness  he  perceived  dimly  the  form  of  the 
lady  upon  the  rear  seat.  He  was  about  to  seat  himself  op- 
posite, when  the  voice  again  swayed  him  to  its  will.  "You 
will  sit  at  the  lady's  side." 

The  gentleman  s^omg  his  great  weight  to  the  forward  seat. 
The  carriage  proceeded  up  the  hill.  The  lady  was  shrunk, 
silent,  into  her  corner.  David  could  not  estimate  whether 
she  was  old  or  young,  but  a  delicate,  mild  perfume  from  her 
clothes  stirred  his  poet's  fancy  to  the  belief  that  there  was 
loveliness  beneath  the  mystery.  Here  was  an  adventure  such 
as  he  had  often  imagined.  But  as  yet  he  held  no  key  to  it, 
for  no  word  was  spoken  while  he  sat  with  his  impenetrable 
companions. 

In  an  hour's  time  David  perceived  through  the  window  that 
the  vehicle  traversed  the  street  of  some  town.  Then  it 
stopped  in  front  of  a  closed  and  darkened  house,  and  a  pos- 
tilion alighted  to  hammer  impatiently  upon  the  door.  A 
latticed  window  above  flew  wide  and  a  nightcapped  head 
popped  out. 

"  Who  are  ye  that  disturb  honest  folk  at  this  time  of  night? 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  19 

My  house  is  closed.  'Tis  too  late  for  profitable  travelers  to 
be  abroad.     Cease  knocking  at  my  door,  and  be  off." 

"Open!"  spluttered  the  postilion,  loudly;  "open  for  Mon- 
seigneur,  the  Marquis  de  Beaupertuys." 

"Ah ! "  cried  the  voice  above.  "Ten  thousand  pardons,  my 
lord.  I  did  not  know — the  hour  is  so  late — at  once  shall  the 
door  be  opened,  and  the  house  placed  at  my  lord's  disposal." 

Inside  was  heard  the  clink  of  chain  and  bar,  and  the  door 
was  flung  open.  Shivering  with  chill  and  apprehension,  the 
landlord  of  the  Silver  Flagon  stood,  half  clad,  candle  in  hand, 
upon  the  threshold. 

David  followed  the  marquis  out  of  the  carriage.  "Assist 
the  lady,"  he  was  ordered.  The  poet  obeyed.  He  felt  her 
small  hand  tremble  as  he  guided  her  descent.  "Into  the 
house,"  was  the  next  command. 

The  room  was  the  long  dining-hall  of  the  tavern.  A  great 
oak  table  ran  down  its  length.  The  huge  gentleman  seated 
himself  in  a  chair  at  the  nearer  end.  The  lady  sank  into 
another  against  the  wall,  with  an  air  of  great  weariness. 
David  stood,  considering  how  best  he  might  now  take  his 
leave  and  continue  upon  his  way. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  landlord,  bowing  to  the  floor,  "h-had  I 
ex-expected  this  honor,  entertainment  would  have  been  ready. 
T-t-there  is  wine  and  cold  fowl  and  m-m-may-be " 

"Candles,"  said  the  marquis,  spreading  the  fingers  of  one 
plump  white  hand  in  a  gesture  he  had. 

"Y-yes,  my  lord."  He  fetched  half  a  dozen  candles, 
lighted  them,  and  set  them  upon  the  table. 

"If  monsieur  would,  perhaps,  deign  to  taste  a  certain  Bur- 
gundy— there  is  a  cask " 

"Candles,"  said  monsieur,  spreading  his  fingers. 

"Assuredly — quickly — I  fly,  my  lord." 

A  dozen  more  lighted  candles  shone  in  the  hall.  The  great 
bulk  of  the  marquis  overflowed  his  chair.  He  was  dressed 
in  fine  black  from  head  to  foot  save  for  the  snowy  ruffles  at 
his  wrist  and  throat.  Even  the  hilt  and  scabbard  of  his 
sword  were  black.     His  expression  was  one  of  sneering  pride. 


20  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

The  ends  of  an  upturned  moustache  reached  nearly  to  his 
mocking  eyes. 

The  lady  sat  motionless,  and  now  David  perceived  that 
she  was  young,  and  possessed  of  pathetic  and  appealing 
beauty.  He  was  startled  from  the  contemplation  of  her  for- 
lorn loveliness  by  the  booming  voice  of  the  marquis. 

"What  is  your  name  and  pursuit.^" 

"David  Mignot.     I  am  a  poet." 

The  moustache  of  the  marquis  curled  nearer  to  his  eyes. 

"How  do  you  live.'^" 

"I  am  also  a  shepherd;  I  guarded  my  father's  flock,"  David 
answered,  with  his  head  high,  but  a  flush  upon  his  cheek. 

"Then  listen,  master  shepherd  and  poet,  to  the  fortune 
you  have  blundered  upon  to-night.  This  lady  is  my  niece, 
Mademoiselle  Lucie  de  Varennes.  She  is  of  noble  descent 
and  is  possessed  of  ten  thousand  francs  a  year  in  her  own 
right.  As  to  her  charms,  you  have  but  to  observe  for  your- 
self. If  the  inventory  pleases  your  shepherd's  heart,  she 
becomes  your  wife  at  a  word.  Do  not  interrupt  me.  To- 
night I  conveyed  her  to  the  chateau  of  the  Comte  de  Ville- 
maur,  to  whom  her  hand  had  been  promised.  Guests  were 
present;  the  priest  was  waiting;  her  marriage  to  one  eligible 
in  rank  and  fortune  was  ready  to  be  accomplished.  At  the 
altar  this  demoiselle,  so  meek  and  dutiful,  turned  upon  me 
like  a  leopardess,  charged  me  with  cruelty  and  crimes,  and 
broke,  before  the  gaping  priest,  the  troth  I  had  plighted  for 
her.  I  swore  there  and  then,  by  ten  thousand  devils,  that  she 
should  marry  the  first  man  we  met  after  leaving  the  chateau, 
be  he  prince,  charcoal-burner,  or  thief.  You,  shepherd,  are 
the  first.  Mademoiselle  must  be  wed  this  night.  If  not  you, 
then  another.  You  have  ten  minutes  in  which  to  make  your 
decision.  Do  not  vex  me  with  words  or  questions.  Ten 
minutes,  shepherd;  and  they  are  speeding." 

The  marquis  drummed  loudly  with  his  white  fingers  upon 
the  table.  He  sank  into  a  veiled  attitude  of  waiting.  It  was 
as  if  some  great  house  had  shut  its  doors  and  windows  against 
approach.     David  would  have  spoken,  but  the  huge  man's 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  21 

bearing  stoppea  his  tongue.  Instead,  he  stood  by  the  lady's 
chair  and  bowed. 

*' Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  and  he  marveled  to  find  his 
words  flowing  easily  before  so  much  elegance  and  beauty. 
*'You  have  heard  me  say  I  was  a  shepherd.  I  have  also  had 
the  fancy,  at  times,  that  I  am  a  poet.  If  it  be  the  test  of 
a  poet  to  adore  and  cherish  the  beautiful,  that  fancy  is  now 
strengthened.     Can  I  serve  you  in  any  way,  mademoiselle?" 

The  young  woman  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  dry  and 
mournful.  His  frank,  glowing  face,  made  serious  by  the 
gravity  of  the  adventure,  his  strong,  straight  figure  and  the 
liquid  sympathy  in  his  blue  eyes,  perhaps,  also,  her  imminent 
need  of  long-denied  help  and  kindness,  thawed  her  to  sudden 
tears. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  in  low  tones,  "you  look  to  be  true 
and  kind.  He  is  my  uncle,  the  brother  of  my  father,  and 
my  only  relative.  He  loved  my  mother,  and  he  hates  me 
because  I  am  like  her.  He  has  made  my  life  one  long  ter- 
ror. I  am  afraid  of  his  very  looks,  and  never  before  dared 
to  disobey  him.  But  to-night  he  would  have  married  me  to 
a  man  three  times  my  age.  You  will  forgive  me  for  bringing 
this  vexation  upon  you,  monsieur.  You  will,  of  course,  de- 
cline this  mad  act  he  tries  to  force  upon  you.  But  let  me 
thank  you  for  your  generous  words,  at  least.  I  have  had 
none  spoken  to  me  in  so  long." 

There  was  now  something  more  than  generosity  in  the 
poet's  eyes.  Poet  he  must  have  been,  for  Yvonne  was  for- 
gotten; this  fine,  new  loveliness  held  him  with  its  freshness 
and  grace.  The  subtle  perfume  from  her  filled  him  with 
strange  emotions.  His  tender  look  fell  warmly  upon  her. 
She  leaned  to  it,  thirstily. 

"Ten  minutes,"  said  David,  "is  given  me  in  which  to  do 
what  I  would  devote  years  to  achieve.  I  will  not  say  I  pity 
you,  mademoiselle;  it  would  not  be  true — I  love  you.  I 
cannot  ask  love  from  you  yet,  but  let  me  rescue  you  from  this 
cruel  man,  and,  in  time,  love  may  come.  I  think  I  have  a 
future,  I  will  not  always  be  a  shepherd.     For  the  present  I 


22  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

will  cherish  you  with  all  my  heart  and  make  your  life  less  sad 
Will  you  trust  your  fate  to  me,  mademoiselle?'* 

'*Ah,  you  would  sacrifice  yourself  from  pity!" 

"From  love.     The  time  is  almost  up,  mademoiselle." 

"You  will  regret  it,  and  despise  me." 

"I  will  live  only  to  make  you  happy,  and  myself  worthy  of 
you." 

Her  fine  small  hand  crept  into  his  from  beneath  her  cloak. 

"I  will  trust  you,"  she  breathed,  "with  my  life.  And — 
and  love — may  not  be  so  far  off  as  you  think.  Tell  him. 
Once  away  from  the  power  of  his  eyes  I  may  forget." 

David  went  and  stood  before  the  marquis.  The  black  figure 
stirred,  and  the  mocking  eyes  glanced  at  the  great  hall  clock. 

"Two  minutes  to  spare.  A  shepherd  requires  eight  min- 
utes to  decide  whether  he  will  accept  a  bride  of  beauty  and 
income!  Speak  up,  shepherd,  do  you  consent  to  become 
mademoiselle's  husband?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  David,  standing  proudly,  "has  done 
me  the  honor  to  yield  to  my  request  that  she  become  my 
wife." 

"Well  said!"  said  the  marquis.  "You  have  yet  the  mak- 
ing of  a  courtier  in  you,  master  shepherd.  Mademoiselle 
could  have  drawn  a  worse  prize,  after  all.  And  now  to  be 
done  with  the  affair  as  quick  as  the  Church  and  the  devil  will 
allow!" 

He  struck  the  table  soundly  with  his  sword  hilt.  The 
landlord  came,  knee-shaking,  bringing  more  candles  in  the 
hope  of  anticipating  the  great  lord's  whims.  "Fetch  a 
priest,"  said  the  marquis,  "  a  priest;  do  you  understand?  In 
ten  minutes  have  a  priest  here,  or " 

The  landlord  dropped  his  candles  and  flew. 

The  priest  came,  heavy-eyed  and  ruffled.  He  made  David 
Mignot  and  Lucie  de  Varennes  man  and  wife,  pocketed  a 
gold  piece  that  the  marquis  tossed  him,  and  shuffled  out 
again  into  the  night. 

"Wine,"  ordered  the  marquis,  spreading  his  ominous 
fingers  at  the  host. 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  23 

"Fill  glasses,"  he  said,  when  it  was  brought.  He  stood  up 
at  the  head  of  the  table  in  the  candlelight,  a  black  mountain 
of  venom  and  conceit,  with  something  like  the  memory  of  an 
old  love  turned  to  poison  in  his  eye,  as  it  fell  upon  his  niece. 

"Monsieur  Mignot,"  he  said,  raising  his  wineglass,  "drink 
after  I  say  this  to  you :  You  have  taken  to  be  your  wife  one 
who  will  make  your  life  a  foul  and  wretched  thing.  The 
blood  in  her  is  an  inheritance  running  black  lies  and  red  ruin. 
She  will  bring  you  shame  and  anxiety.  The  devil  that  de- 
scended to  her  is  there  in  her  eyes  and  skin  and  mouth  that 
stoop  even  to  beguile  a  peasant.  There  is  your  promise,  mon- 
sieur poet,  for  a  happy  life.  Drink  your  wine.  At  last, 
mademoiselle,  I  am  rid  of  you." 

The  marquis  drank.  A  little  grievous  cry,  as  if  from  a 
sudden  wound,  came  from  the  girl's  lips.  David,  with  his 
glass  in  his  hand,  stepped  forward  three  paces  and  faced  the 
marquis.     There  was  little  of  a  shepherd  in  his  bearing. 

"Just  now,"  he  said,  calmly,  "you  did  me  the  honor  to 
^all  me  'monsieur.'  May  I  hope,  therefore,  that  my  marriage 
to  mademoiselle  has  placed  me  somewhat  nearer  to  you  in — • 
let  us  say,  reflected  rank — ^has  given  me  the  right  to  stand 
more  as  an  equal  to  monseigneur  in  a  certain  little  piece  o* 
business  I  have  in  my  mind.f^" 

"You  may  hope,  shepherd,"  sneered  the  marquis. 

"Then,"  said  David,  dashing  his  glass  of  wine  into  the 
contemptuous  eyes  that  mocked  him,  "perhaps  you  will  con- 
descend to  fight  me." 

The  fury  of  the  great  lord  outbroke  in  one  sudden  curse 
like  a  blast  from  a  horn.  He  tore  his  sword  from  its  black 
sheath;  he  called  to  the  hovering  landlord:  "A  sword  there, 
for  this  lout!"  He  turned  to  the  lady,  with  a  laugh  that 
chilled  her  heart,  and  said:  "You  put  much  labor  upon  me, 
madame.  It  seems  I  must  find  you  a  husband  and  make  you 
a  widow  in  the  same  night.'* 

"I  know  not  sword-play,"  said  David.  He  flushed  to 
make  the  confession  before  his  lady. 

"  *I  know  not  sword-play, ' "  mimicked  the  marquis.    "Shall 


24  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

we  fight  like  peasants  with  oaken  cudgels?  Hola !  Frangoisj 
my  pistols!" 

A  postilion  brought  two  shining  great  pistols  ornamented 
with  carven  silver,  from  the  carriage  holsters.  The  marquis 
tossed  one  upon  the  table  near  David's  hand.  "To  the  other 
end  of  the  table,"  he  cried;  "even  a  shepherd  may  pull  a 
trigger.  Few  of  them  attain  the  honor  to  die  by  the  weapon 
of  a  De  Beaupertuys." 

The  shepherd  and  the  marquis  faced  each  other  from  the 
ends  of  the  long  table.  The  landlord,  in  an  ague  of  terror, 
clutched  the  air  and  stammered:  "M-M-Monseigneur,  for 
the  love  of  Christ!  not  in  my  house! — do  not  spill  blood — it 
will  ruin  my  custom "  The  look  of  the  marquis,  threaten- 
ing him,  paralyzed  his  tongue. 

"Coward,"  cried  the  lord  of  Beaupertuys,  "cease  chattering 
your  teeth  long  enough  to  give  the  word  for  us,  if  you  can." 

Mine  host's  knees  smote  the  floor.  He  was  without  a  vo- 
cabulary. Even  sounds  were  beyond  him.  Still,  by  gestures 
he  seemed  to  beseech  peace  in  the  name  of  his  house  and 
custom. 

"  I  will  give  the  word,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  clear  voice.  She 
went  up  to  David  and  kissed  him  sweetly.  Her  eyes  w^ere 
sparkling  bright,  and  color  had  come  to  her  cheek.  She  stood 
against  the  wall,  and  the  two  men  leveled  their  pistols  for  her 
count. 

"  Un — deux — trois  .'" 

The  tW'O  reports  came  so  nearly  together  that  the  candles 
■flickered  but  once.  The  marquis  stood,  smiling,  the  fingers 
of  his  left  hand  resting,  outspread,  upon  the  end  of  the  table. 
David  remained  erect,  and  turned  his  head  very  slowly, 
searching  for  his  wife  with  his  eyes.  Then,  as  a  garment  falls 
from  where  it  is  hung,  he  sank,  crumpled,  upon  the  floor. 

With  a  little  cry  of  terror  and  despair,  the  widowed  maid 
ran  and  stooped  above  him.  She  found  his  wound,  and  then 
looked  up  with  her  old  look  of  pale  melancholy.  "Through 
his  heart,"  she  whispered.     "Oh,  his  heart!" 

"Come, "  boomed  the  great  voice  of  the  marquis,  "out  with 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  25 

you  to  the  carriage!  Daybreak  shall  not  find  you  on  my 
hands.  Wed  you  shall  be  again,  and  to  a  living  husband, 
this  night.  The  next  we  come  upon,  my  lady,  highwayman 
or  peasant.  If  the  road  yields  no  other,  then  the  churl  that 
opens  my  gates.     Out  with  you  to  the  carriage!" 

The  marquis,  implacable  and  huge,  the  lady  wrapped  again 
in  the  mystery  of  her  cloak,  the  postilion  bearing  the  weapons 
— all  moved  out  to  the  waiting  carriage.  The  sound  of  its 
ponderous  wheels  rolling  away  echoed  through  the  slumbering 
village.  In  the  hall  of  the  Silver  Flagon  the  distracted  land- 
lord wrung  his  hands  above  the  slain  poet's  body,  while  the 
flames  of  the  four  and  twenty  candles  danced  and  flickered 
on  the  table. 

THE   RIGHT   BRANCH 

Three  leagues,  then,  the  road  ran,  and  turned  into  a  puzzle. 
It  joined  with  another  and  a  larger  road  at  right  angles.  David 
stood,  uncertain,  for  a  while,  and  then  took  the  road  to  the  right. 

Whither  it  led  he  knew  not,  but  he  was  resolved  to  leave 
Vernoy  far  behind  that  night.  He  traveled  a  league  and 
then  passed  a  large  chateau  which  showed  testimony  of  recent 
entertainment.  Lights  shone  from  every  window;  from  the 
great  stone  gateway  ran  a  tracery  of  wheel  tracks  drawn  in 
the  dust  by  the  vehicles  of  the  guests. 

Three  leagues  farther  and  David  was  weary.  He  rested 
and  slept  for  a  while  on  a  bed  of  pine  boughs  at  the  roadside. 
Then  up  and  on  again  along  the  unknown  way. 

Thus  for  five  days  he  traveled  the  great  road,  sleeping 
upon  Nature's  balsamic  beds  or  in  peasants'  ricks,  eating  of 
their  black,  hospitable  bread,  drinking  from  streams  or  the 
willing  cup  of  the  goatherd. 

At  length  he  crossed  a  great  bridge  and  set  his  foot  within 
the  smiling  city  that  has  crushed  or  crowned  more  poets  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  world.  His  breath  came  quickly  as  Paris 
sang  to  him  in  a  little  undertone  her  vital  chant  of  greeting — ■ 
the  hum  of  voice  and  foot  and  wheel. 

High  up  under  the  eaves  of  an  old  house  in  the  Rue  Conti. 


26  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

David  paid  for  lodging,  and  set  himself,  in  a  wooden  chairj 
to  his  poems.  The  street,  once  sheltering  citizens  of  import 
and  consequence,  was  now  given  over  to  those  who  ever  follow 
in  the  wake  of  decline. 

The  houses  were  tall  and  still  possessed  of  a  ruined  dignity, 
but  many  of  them  were  empty  save  for  dust  and  the  spider. 
By  night  there  was  the  clash  of  steel  and  the  cries  of  brawlers 
straying  restlessly  from  inn  to  inn.  Where  once  gentility 
abode  was  now  but  a  rancid  and  rude  incontinence.  But 
here  David  found  housing  commensurate  to  his  scant  purse. 
Daylight  and  candlelight  found  him  at  pen  and  paper. 

One  afternoon  he  was  returning  from  a  foraging  trip  to 
the  lower  world,  with  bread  and  curds  and  a  bottle  of  thin 
wine.  Halfway  up  his  dark  stairway  he  met — or  rather 
came  upon,  for  she  rested  on  the  stair — a  young  woman  of  a 
beauty  that  should  balk  even  the  justice  of  a  poet's  imagina- 
tion.  A  loose,  dark  cloak,  flung  open,  showed  a  rich  gown 
beneath.  Her  eyes  changed  swiftly  with  every  little  shade 
of  thought.  Within  one  moment  they  would  be  round  and 
artless  like  a  child's,  and  long  and  cozening  like  a  gipsy's 
One  hand  raised  her  gown,  undraping  a  little  shoe,  high-heeled 
with  its  ribbons  dangling,  untied.  So  heavenly  she  was,  so 
unfitted  to  stoop,  so  qualified  to  charm  and  command !  Per' 
haps  she  had  seen  David  coming,  and  had  waited  for  his 
help  there. 

Ah,  would  monsieur  pardon  that  she  occupied  the  stairway, 
but  the  shoe ! — the  naughty  shoe !  Alas !  it  would  not  remain 
tied.     Ah!  if  monsieur  would  be  so  gracious! 

The  poet's  fingers  trembled  as  he  tied  the  contrary  ribbons. 
Then  he  would  have  fled  from  the  danger  of  her  presence, 
but  the  eyes  grew  long  and  cozening,  like  a  gipsy's,  and 
held  him.  He  leaned  against  the  balustrade,  clutching  his 
bottle  of  sour  wine. 

"You  have  been  so  good,"  she  said,  smiling.     "Does  mon 
sieur,  perhaps,  five  in  the  house.'*" 

*'Yes,  madame.     I — I  think  so,  madame." 

''Perhaps  in  the  third  story,  then?'* 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  27 

"No,  madame;  higher  up." 

The  lady  fluttered  her  fingers  with  the  least  possible  ges« 
ture  of  impatience. 

"Pardon.  Certainly  I  am  not  discreet  in  asking.  Mon- 
sieur will  forgive  me  ?  It  is  surely  not  becoming  that  I  should 
inquire  where  he  lodges." 

"Madame,  do  not  say  so.     I  live  in  the " 

"No,  no,  no;  do  not  tell  me.  Now  I  see  that  I  erred.  But 
I  cannot  lose  the  interest  I  feel  in  this  house  and  all  that  is 
in  it.  Once  it  was  my  home.  Often  I  come  here  but  to 
dream  of  those  happy  days  again.     Will  you  let  that  be  my 


-excuse: 


"Let  me  tell  you,  then,  for  you  need  no  excuse,  stam- 
mered the  poet.  "I  live  in  the  top  floor — the  small  room 
where  the  stairs  turn." 

"In  the  front  room.^"  asked  the  lady,  turning  her  head 
sidewise. 

"The  rear,  madame." 

The  lady  sighed,  as  if  with  relief. 

"I  will  detain  you  no  longer,  then,  monsieur,"  she  said, 
employing  the  round  and  artless  eye.  "Take  good  care  of 
my  house.  Alas!  only  the  memories  of  it  are  mine  now. 
Adieu,  and  accept  my  thanks  for  your  courtesy." 

She  was  gone,  leaving  but  a  smile  and  a  trace  of  sweet 
perfume.  David  climbed  the  stairs  as  one  in  slumber.  But 
he  awoke  from  it,  and  the  smile  and  the  perfume  lingered 
with  him  and  never  afterward  did  either  seem  quite  to  leave 
him.  This  lady  of  whom  he  knew  nothing  drove  him  to  lyrics 
of  eyes,  chansons  of  swiftly  conceived  love,  odes  to  curling 
hair,  and  sonnets  to  shppers  on  slender  feet. 

Poet  he  must  have  been,  for  Yvonne  was  forgotten;  this 
fine,  new  loveliness  held  him  with  its  freshness  and  grace. 
The  subtle  perfume  about  her  filled  him  with  strange  emo- 
tions. 

On  a  certain  night  three  persons  were  gathered  about  a 
table  in  a  room  on  the  third  floor  of  the  same  house.     Three 


28  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

chairs  and  the  table  and  a  Hghted  candle  upon  it  was  all  the 
furniture.  One  of  the  persons  was  a  huge  man,  dressed  in 
black.  His  expression  was  one  of  sneering  pride.  The  ends 
of  his  upturned  moustache  reached  nearly  to  his  mocking 
eyes.  Another  was  a  lady,  young  and  beautiful,  with  eyes 
that  could  be  round  and  artless,  like  a  child's,  or  long  and 
cozening,  like  a  gipsy's,  but  were  now  keen  and  ambitious,  like 
any  other  conspirator's.  The  third  was  a  man  of  action,  a 
combatant,  a  bold  and  impatient  executive,  breathing  fire 
and  steel.  He  was  addressed  by  the  others  as  Captain 
Desrolles. 

This  man  struck  the  table  with  his  fist,  and  said,  with  con- 
trolled violence: 

"To-night.  To-night  as  he  goes  to  midnight  mass.  I  am 
tired  of  the  plotting  that  gets  nowhere.  I  am  sick  of  signals 
and  ciphers  and  secret  meetings  and  such  haragouin.  Let  us 
be  honest  traitors.  If  France  is  to  be  rid  of  him,  let  us  kill 
in  the  open,  and  not  hunt  with  snares  and  traps.  To-night, 
I  say.  I  back  my  words.  My  hand  will  do  the  deed.  To- 
night, as  he  goes  to  mass." 

The  lady  turned  upon  him  a  cordial  look.  Woman,  how- 
ever wedded  to  plots,  must  ever  thus  bow  to  rash  courage. 
The  big  man  stroked  his  upturned  moustache. 

"Dear  captain,"  he  said,  in  a  great  voice,  softened  by  habit, 
"this  time  I  agree  with  you.  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by 
waiting.  Enough  of  the  palace  guards  belong  to  us  to  make 
the  endeavor  a  safe  one." 

"To-night,"  repeated  Captain  Desrolles,  again  striking  the 
table.  "You  have  heard  me,  marquis;  my  hand  will  do  the 
deed." 

"But  now,"  said  the  huge  man,  softly,  "comes  a  question. 
Word  must  be  sent  to  our  partisans  in  the  palace,  and  a  signal 
agreed  upon.  Our  stanchest  men  must  accompany  the  royal 
carriage.  At  this  hour  what  messenger  can  penetrate  so  far 
as  the  south  doorway.^  Ribout  is  stationed  there;  once  a  mes- 
sage is  placed  in  his  hands,  all  will  go  well/' 

"I  will  send  the  message,"  said  the  lady. 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  29 

"You,  countess?"  said  the  marquis,  raising  his  eyebrows. 
"Your  devotion  is  great,  we  know,  but " 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  the  lady,  rising  and  resting  her  hands 
upon  the  table;  "in  a  garret  of  this  house  lives  a  youth  from 
the  provinces  as  guileless  and  tender  as  the  lambs  he  tended 
there.  I  have  met  him  twice  or  thrice  upon  the  stairs.  I 
questioned  him,  fearing  that  he  might  dwell  too  near  the 
room  in  which  we  are  accustomed  to  meet.  He  is  mine,  if  I 
will.  He  writes  poems  in  his  garret,  and  I  think  he  dreams 
of  me.  He  will  do  what  I  say.  He  shall  take  the  message 
to  the  palace." 

The  marquis  rose  from  his  chair  and  bowed.  "You  did 
not  permit  me  to  finish  my  sentence,  countess,"  he  said.  "I 
would  have  said:  'Your  devotion  is  great,  but  your  wit  and 
charm  are  infinitely  greater. 

While  the  conspirators  were  thus  engaged,  David  was  pol- 
ishing some  lines  addressed  to  his  amorette  d'escalier.  He 
heard  a  timorous  knock  at  his  door,  and  opened  it,  with  a 
great  throb,  to  behold  her  there,  panting  as  one  in  straits, 
with  eyes  wide  open  and  artless,  like  a  child's. 

"Monsieur,"  she  breathed,  "I  come  to  you  in  distress.  I 
believe  you  to  be  good  and  true,  and  I  know  of  no  other  help. 
How  I  flew  through  the  streets  among  the  swaggering  men! 
Monsieur,  my  mother  is  dying.  My  uncle  is  a  captain  of 
guards  in  the  palace  of  the  king.  Some  one  must  fly  to  bring 
him.     May  I  hope " 

"Mademoiselle,"  interrupted  David,  his  eyes  shining  with 
the  desire  to  do  her  service,  "your  hopes  shall  be  my  wings. 
Tell  me  how  I  may  reach  him." 

The  lady  thrust  a  sealed  paper  into  his  hand. 

"Go  to  the  south  gate — the  south  gate,  mind — and  say 
to  the  guards  there,  *The  falcon  has  left  his  nest.'  They 
will  pass  you,  and  you  will  go  to  the  south  entrance  to  the 
palace.  Repeat  the  words,  and  give  this  letter  to  the  man 
who  will  reply  'Let  him  strike  when  he  will.'  This  is  the 
password,  monsieur,  entrusted  to  me  by  my  uncle,  for  now 
when  the  country  is  disturbed  and  men  plot  against  the  king's 


30  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

life,  no  one  without  it  can  gain  entrance  to  the  palace  grounds 
after  nightfall.  If  you  will,  monsieur,  take  him  this  letter 
so  that  my  mother  may  see  him  before  she  closes  her 
eyes." 

Give  it  me,"  said  David,  eagerly.  "But  shall  I  let  you 
return  home  through  the  streets  alone  so  late.^     I " 

"No,  no — fly.  Each  moment  is  like  a  precious  jewel. 
Some  time,"  said  the  lady,  with  eyes  long  and  cozening,  like  a 
gipsy's,  "I  will  try  to  thank  you  for  your  goodness." 

The  poet  thrust  the  letter  into  his  breast,  and  bounded 
doTVTi  the  stairway.  The  lady,  when  he  was  gone,  returned  to 
the  room  below. 

The  eloquent  eyebrows  of  the  marquis  interrogated  her. 

"He  is  gone,"  she  said,  "as  fleet  and  stupid  as  one  of  his 
own  sheep,  to  deliver  it." 

The  table  shook  again  from  the  batter  of  Captain  Des- 
rolles's  fist. 

"Sacred  name!"  he  cried;  "I  have  left  my  pistols  behind! 
I  can  trust  no  others." 

"Take  this,"  said  the  marquis,  drawing  from  beneath  his 
cloak  a  shining,  great  weapon,  ornamented  with  carven 
silver.  "There  are  none  truer.  But  guard  it  closely,  for  it 
bears  my  arms  and  crest,  and  already  I  am  suspected.  Me, 
I  must  put  many  leagues  between  myself  and  Paris  this  night. 
To-morrow  must  find  me  in  my  chateau.  After  you,  dear 
countess." 

The  marquis  puffed  out  the  candle.  The  lady,  well 
cloaked,  and  the  two  gentlemen  softly  descended  the  stairway 
and  flowed  into  the  crowd  that  roamed  along  the  narrow 
pavements  of  the  Rue  Conti. 

David  sped.  At  the  south  gate  of  the  king's  residence  a 
halberd  was  laid  to  his  breast,  but  he  turned  its  point  with 
the  words:  "The  falcon  has  left  his  nest." 

"Pass,  brother,"  said  the  guard,  "and  go  quickly." 

On  the  south  steps  of  the  palace  they  moved  to  seize 
him,  but  again  the  mot  de  passe  charmed  the  watchers. 
One  smong  them  stepped  forward  and  began:   "Let  him 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  31 

strike "  but  a  flurry  among  the  guards  told  of  a  surprise. 

A  man  of  keen  look  and  soldierly  stride  suddenly  pressed 
through  them  and  seized  the  letter  which  David  held  in  his 
hand.  *'  Come  with  me,"  he  said,  and  led  him  inside  the  great 
hall.  Then  he  tore  open  the  letter  and  read  it.  He  beckoned 
to  a  man  uniformed  as  an  officer  of  musketeers,  who  was  pass- 
ing. "Captain  Tetreau,  you  will  have  the  guards  at  the 
south  entrance  and  the  south  gate  arrested  and  confined. 
Place  men  known  to  be  royal  in  their  places."  To  David  he 
said:     "Come  with  me." 

He  conducted  him  through  a  corridor  and  an  anteroom  into 
a  spacious  chamber,  where  a  melancholy  man,  sombrely 
dressed,  sat  brooding  in  a  great,  leather-covered  chair.  To 
that  man  he  said: 

"  Sire,  I  have  told  you  that  the  palace  is  as  full  of  traitors 
and  spies  as  a  sewer  is  of  rats.  You  have  thought,  sire,  that 
it  was  my  fancy.  This  man  penetrated  to  your  very  door 
by  their  connivance.  He  bore  a  letter  which  I  have  inter- 
cepted. I  have  brought  him  here  that  your  majesty  may 
Qo  longer  think  my  zeal  excessive." 

"I  will  question  him,"  said  the  king,  stirring  in  his  chair. 
He  looked  at  David  with  heavy  eyes  dulled  by  an  opaque 
film.     The  poet  bent  his  knee. 

"From  where  do  you  come.^^"  asked  the  king. 

"From  the  village  of  Vernoy,  in  the  province  of  Eure-et- 
Loir,  sire." 

"What  do  you  follow  in  Paris?" 

"I — I  would  be  a  poet,  sire." 

"What  did  you  in  Vernoy?" 

"I  minded  my  father's  flock  of  sheep." 

The  king  stirred  again,  and  the  film  lifted  from  his  eyes. 

"Ah!  in  the  fields!" 

"Yes,  sire." 

"You  lived  in  the  fields;  you  went  out  in  the  cool  of  the 
morning  and  lay  among  the  hedges  in  the  grass.  The  flock 
distributed  itself  upon  the  hillside;  you  drank  of  the  living 
stream;  you  ate  your  sweet,  brown  bread  in  the  shade,  and 


32  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

you  listened,  doubtless,  to  blackbirds  piping  in  the  grove.  Is 
not  that  so,  shepherd?" 

**It  is,  sire,"  answered  David,  with  a  sigh;  "and  to  the 
bees  at  the  flowers,  and,  maybe,  to  the  grape  gatherers  sing- 
ing on  the  hill." 

*'Yes,  yes,"  said  the  king,  impatiently;  "maybe  to  them; 
but  surely  to  the  blackbirds.  They  whistled  often,  in  the 
grove,  did  they  not?" 

"Nowhere,  sire,  so  sweetly  as  in  Eure-et-Loir.  I  have 
endeavored  to  express  their  song  in  some  verses  that  I  have 
written." 

"Can  you  repeat  those  verses?"  asked  the  king,  eagerly. 
"A  long  time  ago  I  listened  to  the  blackbirds.  It  would  be 
something  better  than  a  kingdom  if  one  could  rightly  con- 
strue their  song.  And  at  night  you  drove  the  sheep  to  the 
fold  and  then  sat,  in  peace  and  tranquillity,  to  your  pleasant 
bread.     Can  you  repeat  those  verses,  shepherd?" 

"They  run  this  way,  sire,"  said  David,  with  respectful 
ardor : 

"'Lazy  shepherd,  see  your  lambkins 
Skip,  ecstatic,  on  the  mead; 
See  the  firs  dance  in  the  breezes. 
Hear  Pan  blowing  at  his  reed. 


'Hear  us  calling  from  the  tree-tops. 
See  us  swoop  upon  your  flock; 

Yield  us  wool  to  make  our  nests  warm 
In  the  branches  of  the —  ' ' 


"If  it  please  your  majesty,"  interrupted  a  harsh  voice,  "I 
will  ask  a  question  or  two  of  this  rhymester.  There  is  little 
time  to  spare.  I  crave  pardon,  sire,  if  my  anxiety  for  your 
safety  offends." 

"The  loyalty,"  said  the  king,  "of  the  Duke  d'Aumale  is 
too  well  proven  to  give  offence."  He  sank  into  his  chair,  and 
the  film  came  again  over  his  eyes. 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  33 

"First,"  said  the  duke,  '*I  will  read  you  the  letter  he 
brought : 

"  *To-night  is  the  anniversary  of  the  dauphin's  death.  If  he  goes, 
as  is  his  custom,  to  midnight  mass  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  his  son,  the 
falcon  will  strike,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Esplanade.  If  this  be  his 
intention,  set  a  red  light  in  the  upper  room  at  the  southwest  corner 
of  the  palace,  that  the  falcon  may  take  heed.' 

"Peasant,"  said  the  duke,  sternly,  "you  have  heard  these 
words.     Who  gave  you  this  message  to  bring?" 

"My  lord  duke,"  said  David,  sincerely,  "I  will  tell  you. 
A  lady  gave  it  me.  She  said  her  mother  was  ill,  and  that  this 
writing  would  fetch  her  uncle  to  her  bedside.  I  do  not  know 
the  meaning  of  the  letter,  but  I  will  swear  that  she  is  beautiful 
and  good." 

"Describe  the  woman,"  commanded  the  duke,  "and  how 
you  came  to  be  her  dupe." 

"Describe  her!"  said  David  with  a  tender  smile.  "You 
would  command  words  to  perform  miracles.  Well,  she  is 
made  of  sunshine  and  deep  shade.  She  is  slender,  like  the 
alders,  and  moves  with  their  grace.  Her  eyes  change  while 
you  gaze  into  them;  now  round,  and  then  half  shut  as  the 
sun  peeps  between  two  clouds.  When  she  comes,  heaven  is 
all  about  her;  when  she  leaves,  there  is  chaos  and  a  scent  of 
hawthorn  blossoms.  She  came  to  me  in  the  Rue  Conti, 
number  twenty -nine." 

"It  is  the  house,"  said  the  duke,  turning  to  the  king, 
"that  we  have  been  watching.  Thanks  to  the  poet's 
tongue,  we  have  a  picture  of  the  infamous  Countess 
Quebedaux." 

"Sire  and  my  lord  duke,"  said  David,  earnestly,  "I  hope 
my  poor  words  have  done  no  injustice.  I  have  looked  into 
that  lady's  eyes.  I  will  stake  my  life  that  she  is  an  angel, 
letter  or  no  letter." 

The  duke  looked  at  him  steadily.  "I  will  put  you  to  the 
proof,"  he  said,  slowly.     "Dressed  as  the  king,  you  shall. 


34  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

yourself,  attend  mass  in  his  carriage  at  midnight.  Do  you 
accept  the  test?'* 

David  smiled.  "I  have  looked  into  her  eyes,"  he  said. 
"I  had  my  proof  there.     Take  yours  how  you  will." 

Half  an  hour  before  twelve  the  Duke  d'Aumale,  with  his 
own  hands,  set  a  red  lamp  in  a  southwest  window  of  the  pal- 
ace. At  ten  minutes  to  the  hour,  David,  leaning  on  his  arm, 
dressed  as  the  king,  from  top  to  toe,  with  his  head  bowed  in 
his  cloak,  walked  slowly  from  the  royal  apartments  to  the 
waiting  carriage.  The  duke  assisted  him  inside  and  closed 
the  door.  The  carriage  whirled  away  along  its  route  to  the 
cathedral. 

On  the  qui  vive  in  a  house  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Espla- 
nade w^as  Captain  Tetreau  with  twenty  men,  ready  to  pounce 
upon  the  conspirators  when  they  should  appear. 

But  it  seemed  that,  for  some  reason,  the  plotters  had 
slightly  altered  their  plans.  When  the  royal  carriage  had 
reached  the  Rue  Christopher,  one  square  nearer  than  the  Rue 
Esplanade,  forth  from  it  burst  Captain  Desrolles,  with  his 
band  of  would-be  regicides,  and  assailed  the  equipage.  The 
guards  upon  the  carriage,  though  surprised  at  the  premature 
attack,  descended  and  fought  valiantly.  The  noise  of  con- 
flict attracted  the  force  of  Captain  Tetreau,  and  they  came 
pelting  down  the  street  to  the  rescue.  But,  in  the  meantime, 
the  desperate  Desrolles  had  torn  open  the  door  of  the  king's 
carriage,  thrust  his  weapon  against  the  body  of  the  dark  fig- 
ure inside,  and  fired. 

Now,  with  loyal  reinforcements  at  hand,  the  street  rang 
with  cries  and  the  rasp  of  steel,  but  the  frightened  horses  had 
dashed  away.  Upon  the  cushions  lay  the  dead  body  of  the 
poor  mock  king  and  poet,  slain  by  a  ball  from  the  pistol  of 
Monseigneur,  the  Marquis  de  Beaupertuys. 

The  Main  Road 

Three  leagues,  then,  the  road  ran,  and  turned  into  a  puzzle. 
It  joined  with  another  and  a  larger  road  at  right  angles,    David 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  35 

stood,  uncertain,  for  a  while,  and  then  sat  himself  to  rest  upon 
its  side. 

Whither  those  roads  led  he  knew  not.  Either  way  there 
seemed  to  he  a  great  world  full  of  chance  and  peril.  And 
then,  sitting  there,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  bright  star,  one  that 
he  and  Yvonne  had  named  for  theirs.  That  set  him  think- 
ing of  Yvonne,  and  he  wondered  if  he  had  not  been  too  hasty. 
Why  should  he  leave  her  and  his  home  because  a  few  hot 
words  had  come  between  them.f^  Was  love  so  brittle  a  thing 
that  jealousy,  the  very  proof  of  it,  could  break  it.^  Mornings 
always  brought  a  cure  for  the  little  heartaches  of  evening. 
There  was  yet  time  for  him  to  return  home  without  any  one 
in  the  sweetly  sleeping  village  of  Vernoy  being  the  wiser.  His 
heart  was  Yvonne's;  there  where  he  had  lived  always  he 
could  write  his  poems  and  find  his  happiness. 

David  rose,  and  shook  off  his  unrest  and  the  wild  mood  that 
had  tempted  him.  He  set  his  face  steadfastly  back  along  the 
road  he  had  come.  By  the  time  he  had  retraveled  the  road 
to  Vernoy,  his  desire  to  rove  was  gone.  He  passed  the  sheep- 
fold,  and  the  sheep  scurried,  with  a  drumming  flutter,  at  his 
late  footsteps,  warming  his  heart  by  the  homely  sound.  He 
crept  without  noise  into  his  little  room  and  lay  there,  thankful 
that  his  feet  had  escaped  the  distress  of  new  roads  that  night. 

How  well  he  knew  woman's  heart!  The  next  evening 
Yvonne  was  at  the  well  in  the  road  where  the  young  con- 
gregated in  order  that  the  cure  might  have  business.  The 
corner  of  her  eye  was  engaged  in  a  search  for  David,  albeit 
her  set  mouth  seemed  unrelenting.  He  saw  the  look;  braved 
the  mouth,  drew  from  it  a  recantation  and,  later,  a  kiss  as 
they  walked  homeward  together. 

Three  months  afterward  they  were  married.  David's 
father  was  shrewd  and  prosperous.  He  gave  them  a  wedding 
that  was  heard  of  three  leagues  away.  Both  the  young 
people  were  favorites  in  the  village.  There  was  a  procession 
in  the  streets,  a  dance  on  the  green;  they  had  the  marionettes 
and  a  tumbler  out  from  Dreux  to  delight  the  guests. 

Then  a  year,  and  David's  father  died.     The  sheep  and  the 


36  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

cottage  descended  to  him.  He  already  had  the  seemliest  wife 
in  the  village.  Yvonne's  milk  pails  and  her  brass  kettles  were 
bright — ouf!  they  blinded  you  in  the  sun  when  you  passed 
that  way.  But  you  must  keep  your  eyes  upon  her  3-ard,  for 
her  flower  beds  were  so  neat  and  gay  they  restored  to  you 
your  sight.  Xnd  you  might  hear  her  sing,  aye,  as  far  as 
the  double  chestnut  tree  above  Pere  Gruneau's  blacksmith 
forge. 

But  a  day  came  when  David  drew  out  paper  from  a  long- 
shut  drawer,  and  began  to  bite  the  end  of  a  pencil.  Spring 
had  come  again  and  touched  his  heart.  Poet  he  must  have 
been,  for  now  Yvonne  was  well-nigh  forgotten.  This  fine 
new  loveliness  of  earth  held  him  with  its  witchery  and  grace» 
The  perfume  from  her  woods  and  meadows  stirred  him 
strangely.  Daily  had  he  gone  forth  with  his  flock,  and 
brought  it  safe  at  night.  But  now  he  stretched  himself  under 
the  hedge  and  pieced  words  together  on  his  bits  of  paper. 
The  sheep  strayed,  and  the  wolves,  perceiving  that  difficult 
poems  make  easy  mutton,  ventured  from  the  woods  and  stole 
his  lambs. 

David's  stock  of  poems  grew  larger  and  his  flock  smaller. 
Yvonne's  nose  and  temper  waxed  sharp  and  her  talk  blunt. 
Her  pans  and  kettles  grew  dufl,  but  her  eyes  had  caught  their 
flash.  She  pointed  out  to  the  poet  that  his  neglect  was  re- 
ducing the  flock  and  bringing  woe  upon  the  household. 
David  hired  a  boy  to  guard  the  sheep,  locked  himself  in  the 
little  room  in  the  top  of  the  cottage,  and  wrote  more  poems. 
The  boy,  being  a  poet  by  nature,  but  not  furnished  with  an 
outlet  in  the  way  of  writing,  spent  his  time  in  slumber.  The 
wolves  lost  no  time  in  discovering  that  poetry  and  sleep  are 
practically  the  same;  so  the  flock  steadily  grew  smaller. 
Yvonne's  ill  temper  increased  at  an  equal  rate.  Sometimes 
she  would  stand  in  the  yard  and  rail  at  David  through  his 
high  window.  Then  you  could  hear  her  as  far  as  the  double 
chestnut  tree  above  Pere  Gruneau's  blacksmith  forge. 

M.  Papineau,  the  kind,  wise,  meddling  old  notary,  saw 
this,  as  he  saw  everything  at  which  his  nose  pointed.     He 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  37 

went  to  David,  fortified  himself  with  a  great  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  said: 

"Friend  Mignot,  I  affixed  the  seal  upon  the  marriage  cer- 
tificate of  your  father.  It  would  distress  me  to  be  obliged  to 
attest  a  paper  signifying  the  bankruptcy  of  his  son.  But 
that  is  what  you  are  coming  to.  I  speak  as  an  old  friend. 
Now%  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  You  have  your  heart  set, 
I  perceive,  upon  poetry.  At  Dreux,  I  have  a  friend,  one 
Monsieur  Bril — Georges  Bril.  He  fives  in  a  fittle  cleared 
space  in  a  houseful  of  books.  He  is  a  learned  man;  he  visits 
Paris  each  year;  he  himself  has  written  books.  He  will  tell 
you  when  the  catacombs  were  made,  how  they  found  out  the 
names  of  the  stars,  and  why  the  plover  has  a  long  bill.  The 
meaning  and  the  form  of  poetry  is  to  him  as  intelligent  as  the 
baa  of  a  sheep  is  to  you.  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  him,  and 
you  shall  take  him  your  poems  and  let  him  read  them.  Then 
you  will  know  if  you  shall  write  more,  or  give  your  attention 
to  your  wife  and  business." 

"Write  the  letter,"  said  David,  "I  am  sorry  you  did  not 
speak  of  this  sooner." 

At  sunrise  the  next  morning  he  was  on  the  road  to  Dreux 
with  the  precious  roll  of  poems  under  his  arm.  At  noon  he 
mped  the  dust  from  his  feet  at  the  door  of  Monsieur  Bril. 
That  learned  man  broke  the  seal  of  M.  Papineau's  letter,  and 
sucked  up  its  contents  through  his  gleaming  spectacles  as  the 
sun  draws  water.  He  took  David  inside  to  his  study  and  sat 
him  down  upon  a  little  island  beat  upon  by  a  sea  of  books. 

Monsieur  Bril  had  a  conscience.  He  flinched  not  even  at 
a  mass  of  manuscript  the  thickness  of  a  finger  length  and 
rolled  to  an  incorrigible  curve.  He  broke  the  back  of  the 
roll  against  his  knee  and  began  to  read.  He  slighted  nothing: 
he  bored  into  the  lump  as  a  worm  into  a  nut,  seeking  for  a 
kernel. 

Meanwhile,  David  sat,  marooned,  trembling  in  the  spray 
of  so  much  literature.  It  roared  in  his  ears.  He  held  no 
chart  or  compass  for  voyaging  in  that  sea.  Half  the  world, 
he  thought,  must  be  writing  books. 


38  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Monsieur  Bril  bored  to  the  last  page  of  the  poems.  Then 
he  took  off  his  spectacles  and  wiped  them  with  his  handker- 
chief. 

"My  old  friend,  Papineau,  is  well.'^"  he  asked. 

"In  the  best  of  health,"  said  David. 

"How  many  sheep  have  you,  Monsieur  Mignot.'^" 

"Three  hundred  and  nine,  when  I  counted  them  yesterday. 
The  flock  has  had  ill  fortune.  To  that  number  it  has  de- 
creased from  eight  hundred  and  fifty." 

"You  have  a  wife  and  a  home,  and  lived  in  comfort.  The 
sheep  brought  you  plenty.  You  went  into  the  fields  with 
them  and  lived  in  the  keen  air  and  ate  the  sweet  bread  of 
contentment.  You  had  but  to  be  vigilant  and  recline  there 
upon  nature's  breast,  listening  to  the  whistle  of  the  black- 
birds in  the  grove.     Am  I  right  thus  far.?" 

"It  was  so,"  said  David. 

"I  have  read  all  your  verses,"  continued  Monsieur  Bril, 
his  eyes  wandering  about  his  sea  of  books  as  if  he  conned  the 
horizon  for  a  sail.  "Look  yonder,  through  that  window, 
Monsieur  Mignot;  tell  me  what  you  see  in  that  tree." 

"I  see  a  crow,"  said  David,  looking. 

"There  is  a  bird,"  said  Monsieur  Bril,  "that  shall  assist 
me  where  I  am  disposed  to  shirk  a  duty.  You  know  that 
bird.  Monsieur  Mignot;  he  is  the  philosopher  of  the  air.  He 
is  happy  through  submission  to  his  lot.  None  so  merry  or 
full-crawed  as  he  with  his  whimsical  eye  and  rollicking  step. 
The  fields  yield  him  what  he  desires.  He  never  grieves  that 
his  plumage  is  not  gay,  like  the  oriole's.  And  you  have 
heard.  Monsieur  Mignot,  the  notes  that  nature  has  given 
him.^     Is  the  nightingale  any  happier,  do  you  think.?" 

David  rose  to  his  feet.  The  crow  cawed  harshly  from  his 
tree. 

"I  thank  you,  Monsieur  Bril,"  he  said,  slowly.  "There 
was  not,  then,  one  nightingale  note  among  all  those  croaks.?" 

"I  could  not  have  missed  it,"  said  Monsieur  Bril,  with  a 
sigh.  "I  read  every  word.  Live  your  poetry,  man;  do  not 
try  to  write  it  any  more." 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY  39 

"I  thank  you,"  said  David,  again.  "And  now  I  will  be 
going  back  to  my  sheep." 

*'If  you  would  dine  with  me,"  said  the  man  of  books,  "and 
overlook  the  smart  of  it,  I  will  give  you  reasons  at  length." 

"No,"  said  the  poet,  "I  must  be  back  in  the  fields  cawing 
at  my  sheep." 

Back  along  the  road  to  Vernoy  he  trudged  with  his  poems 
under  his  arm.  When  he  reached  his  village  he  turned  into 
the  shop  of  one  Zeigler,  a  Jew  out  of  Armenia,  who  sold  any- 
thing that  came  to  his  hand. 

"Friend,"  said  David,  "wolves  from  the  forest  harass  my 
sheep  on  the  hills.  I  must  purchase  firearms  to  protect  them. 
What  have  you.^" 

"A  bad  day,  this,  for  me,  friend  Mignot,"  said  Zeigler, 
spreading  his  hands,  "for  I  perceive  that  I  must  sell  you  a 
weapon  that  will  not  fetch  a  tenth  of  its  value.  Only  last 
week  I  bought  from  a  peddler  a  wagon  full  of  goods  that 
he  procured  at  a  sale  by  a  commissionaire  of  the  crown.  The 
sale  was  of  the  chateau  and  belongings  of  a  great  lord — I  know 
not  his  title — who  has  been  banished  for  conspiracy  against 
the  king.  There  are  some  choice  firearms  in  the  lot.  This 
pistol — oh,  a  weapon  fit  for  a  prince! — it  shall  be  only  forty 
francs  to  you,  friend  Mignot — if  I  lost  ten  by  the  sale.  But 
perhaps  an  arquebuse " 

"This  will  do,"  said  David,  throwing  the  money  on  the 
counter.     "Is  it  charged.^" 

" I  will  charge  it,"  said  Zeigler.  "And,  for  ten  francs  more, 
add  a  store  of  powder  and  ball." 

David  laid  his  pistol  under  his  coat  and  walked  to  his  cot- 
tage. Yvonne  was  not  there.  Of  late  she  had  taken  to 
gadding  much  among  the  neighbors.  But  a  fire  was  glowing 
in  the  kitchen  stove.  David  opened  the  door  of  it  and  thrust 
his  poems  in  upon  the  coals.  As  they  blazed  up  they  made 
a  singing,  harsh  sound  in  the  flue. 

"The  song  of  the  crow!"  said  the  poet. 

He  went  up  to  his  attic  room  and  closed  the  door.  So 
quiet  was  the  village  that  a  score  of  people  heard  the  roar 


40  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

of  the  great  pistol.  They  flocked  thither,  and  up  the  stairs 
where  the  smoke,  issuing,  drew  their  notice. 

The  men  laid  the  body  of  the  poet  upon  his  bed,  awkwardly 
arranging  it  to  conceal  the  torn  plumage  of  the  poor  black 
crow.  The  women  chattered  in  a  luxury  of  zealous  pity. 
Some  of  them  ran  to  tell  Yvonne. 

M.  Papineau,  whose  nose  had  brought  him  there  among  the 
first,  picked  up  the  weapon  and  ran  his  eye  over  its  silver 
mountings  with  a  mingled  air  of  connoisseurship  and  grief. 

"The  arms,"  he  explained,  aside,  to  the  cure,  "and  crest  of 
Monseigneur,  the  Marquis  de  Beaupertuys." 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 

From  Roads  of  Destiny.  First  published  in  The  Cosmopolitan 
Magazine,  April,  1903.  For  the  singular  history  of  this  story,  see 
the  0.  Henry  Biography  pages  191-194.  The  popularity  of  the  story 
as  a  motion  picture  added  greatly  to  the  author's  vogue,  though  in 
the  English,  French,  and  Spanish  versions  O.  Henry's  name  was  not 
mentioned.  The  character  of  Jimmy  Valentine  is  taken  from  life 
but  there  is  a  close  parallel  to  the  leading  incident  in  chapter  XLII 
of  Hugo's  Les  Miserables.  The  chief  criticism  of  the  story  has  been 
that  in  spite  of  the  hero's  reformation  he  offers  his  kit  of  burglar's 
tools  to  a  pal  instead  of  destroying  them.  O.  Henry's  interpre- 
tation of  the  character,  however,  is  thoroughly  consistent.  Jimmy's 
reformation,  as  the  title  of  the  story  intimates,  was  as  yet  incom- 
plete. It  concerned  himself,  not  his  pals.  He  had  not  reached  that 
maturer  stage  where  the  exemplar  of  a  virtue  becomes  also  its  propa- 
gandist. 

A  GUARD  came  to  the  prison  shoe-shop,  where  Jimmy 
Valentine  was  assiduously  stitching  uppers,  and  escorted  him 
to  the  front  office.  There  the  w^arden  handed  Jimmy  his  par- 
don, which  had  been  signed  that  morning  by  the  governor. 
Jimmy  took  it  in  a  tired  kind  of  way.  He  had  served  nearly 
ten  months  of  a  four-year  sentence.  He  had  expected  to 
stay  only  about  three  months,  at  the  longest.  When  a  man 
w4th  as  many  friends  on  the  outside  as  Jimmy  Valentine  had 
is  received  in  the  ''stir"  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  cut  his 
hair. 

"Now,  Valentine,"  said  the  warden,  "you'll  go  out  in  the 
morning.  Brace  up,  and  make  a  man  of  yourself.  You're  not 
a  bad  fellow  at  heart.    Stop  cracking  safes,  and  live  straight." 

"Me.^"  said  Jimmy,  in  surprise.  "Why,  I  never  cracked 
a  safe  in  my  Hfe." 

41 


42  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"Oh,  no,"  laughed  the  warden.  "Of  course  not.  Let's 
see,  now.  How  was  it  you  happened  to  get  sent  up  on  that 
Springfield  job.^  Was  it  because  you  wouldn't  prove  an 
aUbi  for  fear  of  compromising  somebody  in  extremely  high- 
toned  society?  Or  was  it  simply  a  case  of  a  mean  old  jury 
that  had  it  in  for  you.^  It's  always  one  or  the  other  with  you 
innocent  victims." 

"Me.f^"  said  Jimmy,  still  blankly  virtuous.  "Why,  war- 
den, I  never  was  in  Springfield  in  my  life ! " 

"Take  him  back,  Cronin,"  smiled  the  warden,  "and  fix  him 
up  with  outgoing  clothes.  Unlock  him  at  seven  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  let  him  come  to  the  bull-pen.  Better  think  over 
my  advice,  Valentine." 

At  a  quarter  past  seven  on  the  next  morning  Jimmy  stood 
in  the  warden's  outer  office.  He  had  on  a  suit  of  the  villain- 
ously fitting,  ready-made  clothes  and  a  pair  of  the  stiff, 
squeaky  shoes  that  the  state  furnishes  to  its  discharged  com- 
pulsory guests. 

The  clerk  handed  him  a  railroad  ticket  and  the  five-dollar 
bill  with  which  the  law  expected  him  to  rehabilitate  himseH 
into  good  citizenship  and  prosperity.  The  warden  gave  him 
a  cigar,  and  shook  hands.  Valentine,  9762,  was  chronicled 
on  the  books  "Pardoned  by  Governor,"  and  Mr.  James  Val- 
entine walked  out  into  the  sunshine. 

Disregarding  the  song  of  the  birds,  the  waving  green  trees, 
and  the  smell  of  the  flowers,  Jimmy  headed  straight  for  a 
restaurant.  There  he  tasted  the  first  sweet  joys  of  liberty 
in  the  shape  of  a  broiled  chicken  and  a  bottle  of  white  wine 
— ^followed  by  a  cigar  a  grade  better  than  the  one  the  war- 
den had  given  him.  From  there  he  proceeded  leisurely  to 
the  depot.  He  tossed  a  quarter  into  the  hat  of  a  blind  man 
sitting  by  the  door,  and  boarded  his  train.  Three  hours  set 
him  down  in  a  little  town  near  the  state  line.  He  went  to 
the  cafe  of  one  Mike  Dolan  and  shook  hands  with  Mike,  who 
was  alone  behind  the  bar. 

"Sorry  we  couldn't  make  it  sooner,  Jimmy,  me  boy," 
said  Mike.     "But  we  had  that  protest  from  Springfield  to 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION  43 

buck  against,  and  the  governor  nearly  balked.  Feeling  all 
right?" 

"Fine,"  said  Jimmy.     "Got  my  key.?" 

He  got  his  key  and  went  upstairs,  unlocking  the  door  of 
a  room  at  the  rear.  Everything  was  just  as  he  had  left  it. 
There  on  the  floor  was  still  Ben  Price's  collar-button  that  had 
been  torn  from  that  eminent  detective's  shirt-band  when  they 
had  overpowered  Jimmy  to  prrest  him. 

Pulling  out  from  the  wall  a  folding-bed,  Jimmy  shd  back 
a  panel  in  the  wall  and  dragged  out  a  dust-covered  suit-case. 
He  opened  this  and  gazed  fondly  at  the  finest  set  of  burglar's 
tools  in  the  East.  It  was  a  complete  set,  made  of  specially 
tempered  steel,  the  latest  designs  in  drills,  punches,  braces 
and  bits,  jimmies,  clamps,  and  augers,  with  two  or  three 
novelties,  invented  by  Jimmy  himself,  in  which  he  took  pride. 
Over  nine  hundred  dollars  they  had  cost  him  to  have  made 
at ,  a  place  where  they  make  such  things  for  the  profession. 

In  half  an  hour  Jimmy  went  downstairs  and  through  the 
cafe.  He  was  now  dressed  in  tasteful  and  well-fitting  clothes, 
and  carried  his  dusted  and  cleaned  suit-case  in  his  hand. 

"Got  anything  on?"  asked  Mike  Dolan,  genially. 

"Me?"  said  Jimmy,  in  a  puzzled  tone.  "I  don't  under- 
stand. I'm  representing  the  New  York  Amalgamated  Short 
Snap  Biscuit  Cracker  and  Frazzled  Wheat  Company." 

This  statement  delighted  Mike  to  such  an  extent  that 
Jimmy  had  to  take  a  seltzer-and-milk  on  the  spot.  He  never 
touched  "hard"  drinks. 

A  week  after  the  release  of  Valentine,  9762,  there  was  a 
neat  job  of  safe-burglary  done  in  Richmond,  Indiana,  with 
no  clue  to  the  author.  A  scant  eight  hundred  dollars  was  all 
that  was  secured.  Two  weeks  after  that  a  patented,  im- 
proved, burglar-proof  safe  in  Logansport  was  opened  like 
a  cheese  to  the  tune  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  currency; 
securities  and  silver  untouched.  That  began  to  interest  the 
rogue-catchers.  Then  an  old-fashioned  bank-safe  in  Jeffer- 
son City  became  active  and  threw  out  of  its  crater  an  erup- 
tion of  bank-notes  amounting  to  five  thousand  dollars.     The 


44  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

losses  were  now  high  enough  to  bring  the  matter  up  into 
Ben  Price's  class  of  work.  By  comparing  notes,  a  remark- 
able similarity  in  the  methods  of  the  burglaries  was  noticed. 
Ben  Price  investigated  the  scenes  of  the  robberies,  and  was 
heard  to  remark: 

*' That's  Dandy  Jim  Valentine's  autograph.  He's  resumed 
business.  Look  at  that  combination  knob — jerked  out  as 
easy  as  pulling  up  a  radish  in  wet  weather.  He's  got  the 
only  clamps  that  can  do  it.  And  look  how  clean  those  tum- 
blers were  punched  out!  Jimmy  never  has  to  drill  but  one 
hole.  Yes,  I  guess  I  want  Mr.  Valentine.  He'll  do  his  bit 
next  time  without  any  short-time  or  clemency  foolishness." 

Ben  Price  knew  Jimmy's  habits.  He  had  learned  them 
while  working  up  the  Springfield  case.  Long  jumps,  quick 
get-aways,  no  confederates,  and  a  taste  for  good  society — 
these  ways  had  helped  Mr.  Valentine  to  become  noted  as  a 
successful  dodger  of  retribution.  It  was  given  out  that  Ben 
Price  had  taken  up  the  trail  of  the  elusive  cracksman,  and 
other  people  w^ith  burglar-proof  safes  felt  more  at  ease. 

One  afternoon  Jimmy  Valentine  and  his  suit-case  climbed 
out  of  the  mail-hack  in  Elmore,  a  little  town  five  miles  off 
the  railroad  down  in  the  black-jack  country  of  Arkansas. 
Jimmy,  looking  like  an  athletic  young  senior  just  home  from 
college,  went  down  the  board  side-walk  toward  the  hotel. 

A  young  lady  crossed  the  street,  passed  him  at  the  corner, 
and  entered  a  door  over  which  was  the  sign  "The  Elmore 
Bank."  Jimmy  Valentine  looked  into  her  eyes,  forgot  what 
he  was,  and  became  another  man.  She  lowered  her  eyes  and 
colored  slightly.  Young  men  of  Jimmy's  style  and  looks  were 
scarce  in  Elmore. 

Jimmy  collared  a  boy  that  was  loafing  on  the  steps  of  the 
bank  as  if  he  w^ere  one  of  the  stockholders,  and  began  to  ask 
him  questions  about  the  town,  feeding  him  dimes  at  intervals. 
By  and  by  the  young  lady  came  out,  looking  royally  uncon- 
scious of  the  young  man  with  the  suit-case,  and  went  her  way. 

''Isn't  that  young  lady  Miss  Polly  Simpson.?"  asked 
Jimmy,  with  specious  guile. 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION  45 

"Naw,"  said  the  boy.  "She's  Annabel  Adams.  Her  pa 
owns  this  bank.  What'd  you  come  to  Elmore  for?  Is  that 
a  gold  watch-chain  .P  I'm  going  to  get  a  bulldog.  Got  any 
more  dimes.'^" 

Jimmy  went  to  the  Planters'  Hotel,  registered  as  Ralph  D. 
Spencer,  and  engaged  a  room.  He  leaned  on  the  desk  and 
declared  his  platform  to  the  clerk.  He  said  he  had  come  to 
Elmore  to  look  for  a  location  to  go  into  business.  How  was 
the  shoe  business,  now,  in  the  town?  He  had  thought  of  the 
shoe  business.     Was  there  an  opening? 

The  clerk  was  impressed  by  the  clothes  and  manner  of 
Jimmy.  He  himself  was  something  of  a  pattern  of  fashion 
to  the  thinly  gilded  youth  of  Elmore,  but  he  now  perceived 
his  shortcomings.  While  trying  to  figure  out  Jimmy's 
manner  of  tying  his  four-in-hand  he  cordially  gave  informa- 
tion. 

Yes,  there  ought  to  be  a  good  opening  in  the  shoe  line. 
There  wasn't  an  exclusive  shoe-store  in  the  place.  The  dry- 
goods  and  general  stores  handled  them.  Business  in  all  lines 
was  fairly  good.  Hoped  Mr.  Spencer  would  decide  to  locate 
in  Elmore.  He  would  find  it  a  pleasant  town  to  live  in,  and 
the  people  very  sociable. 

Mr.  Spencer  thought  he  would  stop  over  in  the  town  a  few 
days  and  look  over  the  situation.  No,  the  clerk  needn't 
call  the  boy.  He  would  carry  up  his  suit-case,  himseK;  it 
was  rather  heavy. 

Mr.  Ralph  Spencer,  the  phoenix  that  arose  from  Jimmy 
Valentine's  ashes— ashes  left  by  the  flame  of  a  sudden  and 
alterative  attack  of  love— remained  in  Elmore,  and  prospered. 
He  opened  a  shoe-store  and  secured  a  good  run  of  trade. 

Socially  he  was  also  a  success,  and  made  many  friends. 
And  he  accomplished  the  wish  of  his  heart.  He  met  Miss 
Annabel  Adams,  and  became  more  and  more  captivated  by 
her  charms. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  the  situation  of  Mr.  Ralph  Spencer  was 
this:  he  had  won  the  respect  of  the  community,  his  shoe-store 
was  flourishing,  and  he  and  Annabel  were  engaged  to  be  mar- 


46  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

ried  in  two  weeks.  Mr.  Adams,  the  typical,  plodding, 
country  banker,  approved  of  Spencer.  Annabel's  pride  in 
him  almost  equaled  her  affection.  He  was  as  much  at  home 
in  the  family  of  IVIr.  x^dams  and  that  of  Annabel's  married 
sister  as  if  he  were  already  a  member. 

One  day  Jimmy  sat  down  in  his  room  and  wrote  this  letter, 
which  he  mailed  to  the  safe  address  of  one  of  his  old  friends  in 
St.  Louis: 

Dear  Old  Pal: 

I  want  you  to  be  at  Sullivan's  place,  in  Little  Rock,  next  Wednes- 
day night,  at  nine  o'clock.  I  want  you  to  wind  up  some  little  mat- 
ters for  me.  And,  also,  I  want  to  make  you  a  present  of  my  kit  of 
tools.  I  know  you'll  be  glad  to  get  them — you  couldn't  duplicate 
the  lot  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Say,  Billj^  I've  quit  the  old  busi- 
ness— a  year  ago.  I've  got  a  nice  store.  I'm  making  an  honest 
living,  and  I'm  going  to  marry  the  finest  girl  on  earth  two  weeks  from 
now.  It's  the  only  life,  Billy — the  straight  one.  I  wouldn't  touch 
a  dollar  of  another  man's  money  now  for  a  million.  After  I  get 
married  I'm  going  to  sell  out  and  go  West,  where  there  won't  be  so 
much  danger  of  having  old  scores  brought  up  against  me.  I  tell  you, 
Billy,  she's  an  angel.  She  believes  in  me;  and  I  wouldn't  do  another 
crooked  thing  for  the  whole  world.  Be  sure  to  be  at  Sully's,  for  I 
must  see  you.     I'll  bring  along  the  tools  with  me. 

Your  old  friend, 

JiM\rF. 

On  the  Monday  night  after  Jimmy  wrote  this  letter,  Ben 
Price  jogged  unobtrusively  into  Elmore  in  a  livery  buggy. 
He  lounged  about  town  in  his  quiet  way  until  he  found  out 
what  he  wanted  to  know.  From  the  drug-store  across  the 
street  from  Spencer's  shoe-store  he  got  a  good  look  at  Ralph 
D.  Spencer. 

"Going  to  marry  the  banker's  daughter  are  you,  Jimmy.?" 
said  Ben  to  himself,  softly.     "Well,  I  don't  know!" 

The  next  morning  Jimmy  took  breakfast  at  the  Adamses. 
He  was  going  to  Little  Rock  that  day  to  order  his  wedding- 
suit  and  buy  something  nice  for  Annabel.  That  would  be 
the  first  time  he  had  left  town  since  he  came  to  Elmore.     It 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION  47 

had  been  more  than  a  year  now  since  those  last  professional 
"jobs,"  and  he  thought  he  could  safely  venture  out. 

After  breakfast  quite  a  family  party  went  downtown  to- 
gether— Mr.  Adams,  Annabel,  Jimmy,  and  Annabel's  mar- 
ried sister  with  her  two  little  girls,  aged  five  and  nine.  They 
came  by  the  hotel  where  Jimmy  still  boarded,  and  he  ran  up 
to  his  room  and  brought  along  his  suit-case.  Then  they  went 
on  to  the  bank.  There  stood  Jimmy's  horse  and  buggy  and 
Dolph  Gibson,  who  was  going  to  drive  him  over  to  the  rail- 
road station. 

All  went  inside  the  high,  carved  oak  railings  into  the  bank- 
ing-room— Jimmy  included,  for  Mr.  Adams's  future  son-in- 
law  was  welcome  anywhere.  The  clerks  were  pleased  to 
be  greeted  by  the  good-looking,  agreeable  young  man  who 
was  going  to  marry  Miss  Annabel.  Jimmy  set  his  suit-case 
down.  Annabel,  whose  heart  was  bubbling  with  happiness 
and  lively  youth,  put  on  Jimmy's  hat,  and  picked  up  the  suit* 
case.  "Wouldn't  I  make  a  nice  drummer.?"  said  Annabel. 
"My!  Ralph,  how  heavy  it  is.^^  Feels  like  it  was  full  of  gold 
bricks." 

"Lot  of  nickel-plated  shoe-horns  in  there,"  said  Jimmy, 
coolly,  "that  I'm  going  to  return.  Thought  I'd  save  ex- 
press charges  by  taking  them  up.  I'm  getting  awfully  eco- 
nomical." 

The  Elmore  Bank  had  just  put  in  a  new  safe  and  vault. 
Mr.  Adams  was  very  proud  of  it,  and  insisted  on  an  inspec- 
tion by  everyone.  The  vault  was  a  small  one,  but  it  had  a 
new,  patented  door.  It  fastened  with  three  solid  steel  bolts 
thrown  simultaneously  with  a  single  handle,  and  had  a  time- 
lock.  Mr.  Adams  beamingly  explained  its  workings  to  Mr. 
Spencer,  who  showed  a  courteous  but  not  too  intelligent  in- 
terest. The  two  children.  May  and  Agatha,  were  delighted 
by  the  shining  metal  and  funny  clock  and  knobs. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged  Ben  Price  sauntered  in  and 
leaned  on  his  elbow,  looking  casually  inside  between  the  rail- 
ings. He  told  the  teller  that  he  didn't  want  anything;  he 
was  just  waiting  for  a  man  he  knew. 


48  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Suddenly  there  was  a  scream  or  two  from  the  women,  and 
a  commotion.  Unperceived  by  the  elders.  May,  the  nine- 
year-old  girl,  in  a  spirit  of  play,  had  shut  Agatha  in  the  vault. 
She  had  then  shot  the  bolts  and  turned  the  knob  of  the  com- 
bination as  she  had  seen  Mr.  Adams  do. 

The  old  banker  sprang  to  the  handle  and  tugged  at  it  for  a 
moment.  "The  door  can't  be  opened,"  he  groaned.  "The 
clock  hasn't  been  wound  nor  the  combination  set." 

Agatha's  mother  screamed  again,  hysterically. 

"Hush!"  said  Mr.  Adams,  raising  his  trembling  hand. 
"All  be  quiet  for  a  moment.  Agatha! "  he  called  as  loudly  as 
he  could.  "Listen  to  me."  During  the  following  silence 
they  could  just  hear  the  faint  sound  of  the  child  wildly  shriek- 
ing in  the  dark  vault  in  a  panic  of  terror. 

"My  precious  darling!"  wailed  the  mother.  "She  will  die 
of  fright!  Open  the  door!  Oh,  break  it  open!  Can't  you 
men  do  something.?" 

"There  isn't  a  man  nearer  than  Little  Rock  who  can  open 
that  door,"  said  Mr.  Adams,  in  a  shaky  voice.  "My  God. 
Spencer,  what  shall  we  do.^^  That  child — she  can't  stand 
it  long  in  there.  There  isn't  enough  air,  and,  besides,  she'll 
go  into  convulsions  from  fright." 

Agatha's  mother,  frantic  now,  beat  the  door  of  the  vault 
with  her  hands.  Somebody  wildly  suggested  dynamite. 
Annabel  turned  to  Jimmy,  her  large  eyes  full  of  anguish,  but 
not  yet  despairing.  To  a  woman  nothing  seems  quite  im- 
possible to  the  powers  of  the  man  she  worships. 

"Can't  you  do  something,  Ralph — try,  won't  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  queer,  soft  smile  on  his  lips  and  in 
his  keen  eyes. 

"Annabel,"  he  said,  "give  me  that  rose  you  are  wearing, 
will  you?" 

Hardly  believing  that  she  heard  him  aright,  she  unpinned 
the  bud  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and  placed  it  in  his  hand. 
Jimmy  stuffed  it  into  his  vest-pocket,  threw  off  his  coat,  and 
pulled  up  his  shirt-sleeves.  With  that  act  Ralph  D.  Spencer 
passed  away  and  Jimmy  Valentine  took  his  place. 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION  49 

"Get  away  from  the  door,  all  of  you,"  he  commanded, 
shortly. 

He  set  his  suit-case  on  the  table,  and  opened  it  out  flat. 
From  that  time  on  he  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  the  pres- 
ence of  any  one  else.  He  laid  out  the  shining,  queer  imple- 
ments swiftly  and  orderly,  whistling  softly  to  himself  as  he 
always  did  when  at  work.  In  a  deep  silence  and  immovable, 
the  others  watched  him  as  if  under  a  spell. 

In  a  minute  Jimmy's  pet  drill  was  biting  smoothly  into  the 
steel  door.  In  ten  minutes — breaking  his  own  burglarious 
record — ^he  threw  back  the  bolts  and  opened  the  door. 

Agatha,  almost  collapsed,  but  safe,  was  gathered  into  her 
mother's  arms. 

Jimmy  Valentine  put  on  his  coat,  and  walked  outside  the 
railings  toward  the  front  door.  As  he  went  he  thought  he 
heard  a  far-away  voice  that  he  once  knew  call  "Ralph!" 
But  he  never  hesitated. 

At  the  door  a  big  man  stood  somewhat  in  his  way. 

"Hello,  Ben!"  said  Jimmy,  still  with  his  strange  smile. 
"Got  around  at  last,  have  you.?  Well,  let's  go.  I  don't 
know  that  it  makes  much  difference,  now." 

And  then  Ben  Price  acted  rather  strangely. 

"Guess  you're  mistaken,  Mr.  Spencer,"  he  said.  "Don't 
believe  I  recognize  you.  Your  buggy's  waiting  for  you,  ain't 
it?" 

And  Ben  Price  turned  and  strolled  down  the  street. 


THE  BRIEF  DEBUT  OF  TILDY 

From  The  Four  Million.  First  published  in  The  World,  March  27, 
1904.  Stories  are  commonly  thought  of  as  compounded  of  back- 
ground or  setting,  character  or  characters,  plot  or  plan,  these  con- 
stituting the  short  story  "rule  of  three."  But  in  many  writers 
the  background  or  setting  is  mentioned  at  the  beginning  and  then 
dismissed.  Not  so  with  O.  Henry.  His  settings  are  no  more 
initial  than  terminal.  They  are  continuous.  They  condition  the 
talk:  they  flavor  the  adjectives,  they  nominate  the  nouns,  they 
move  with  the  verbs.  Try  to  retell  this  story,  and  see  what  has  gone 
out  of  it.  You  have  omitted  an  essential,  the  restaurant  atmosphere. 
When  O.  Henry's  stories  are  called  mere  anecdotes,  the  critic  is  im- 
peaching nothing  more  than  his  own  retold  and  impoverished 
product.  To  omit  background  or  setting  or  atmosphere — call  it 
what  you  will  in  O.  Henry's  work — is  to  omit  the  integration  of  both 
plot  and  character.  Is  it  any  more  discreditable  to  a  short  story 
that  it  may  be  cut  up  and  then  summarized  fragmentarily  in  terms 
of  an  anecdote  than  it  is  to  a  New  Testament  parable  that  it  may  be 
similarly  mutilated  and  distilled  into  a  proverb.'^  This  story  and 
A  Lickpenny  Lover  have  been  dubbed  not  stories  but  anecdotes. 

If  you  do  not  know  Bogle's  Chop  House  and  Family 
Restaurant  it  is  your  loss.  For  if  you  are  one  of  the  fortunate 
ones  who  dine  expensively  you  should  be  interested  to  know 
how  the  other  half  consumes  provisions.  And  if  you  belong 
to  the  half  to  whom  waiters'  checks  are  things  of  moment,  you 
should  know  Bogle's,  for  there  you  get  your  money's  worth — 
in  quantity,  at  least. 

Bogle's  is  situated  in  that  highway  of  bourgeoisie,  that 
boulevard  of  Brown-Jones-and-Robinson,  Eighth  Avenue. 
There  are  two  rows  of  tables  in  the  room,  six  in  each  row.  On 
each  table  is  a  caster-stand,  containing  cruets  of  condiments 
and  seasons.    From  the  pepper  cruet  you  may  shake  a  cloud 

50 


THE  BRIEF  DfiBUT  OF  TILDY  51 

of  something  tasteless  and  melancholy,  like  volcanic  dust. 
From  the  salt  cruet  you  may  expect  nothing.  Though  a  man 
should  extract  a  sanguinary  stream  from  the  pallid  turnip, 
yet  will  his  prowess  be  balked  when  he  comes  to  wrest  salt 
from  Bogle's  cruets.  Also  upon  each  table  stands  the  counter- 
feit of  that  benign  sauce  made  "from  the  recipe  of  a  nobleman 
in  India." 

At  the  cashier's  desk  sits  Bogle,  cold,  sordid,  slow, 
smouldering,  and  takes  your  money.  Behind  a  mountain  of 
toothpicks  he  makes  your  change,  files  your  check,  and  ejects 
at  you,  like  a  toad,  a  word  about  the  weather.  Beyond  a 
corroboration  of  his  meteorological  statement  you  would 
better  not  venture.  You  are  not  Bogle's  friend;  you  are  a 
fed,  transient  customer,  and  you  and  he  may  not  meet  again 
until  the  blowing  of  Gabriel's  dinner  horn.  So  take  your 
change  and  go— to  the  devil  if  you  like.  There  you, have 
Bogle's  sentiments. 

The  needs  of  Bogle's  customers  were  supplied  by  two 
waitresses  and  a  Voice.  One  of  the  waitresses  was  named 
Aileen.  She  was  tall,  beautiful,  lively,  gracious,  and  learned 
in  persiflage.  Her  other  name?  There  was  no  more  neces- 
sity for  another  name  at  Bogle's  than  there  was  for  finger- 
bowls. 

The  name  of  the  other  waitress  was  Tildy.  Why  do  you 
suggest  Matilda?  Please  listen  this  time— Tildy— Tildy. 
Tildy  was  dumpy,  plain-faced,  and  too  anxious  to  please  to 
please.  Repeat  the  last  clause  to  yourself  once  or  twice,  and 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  duplicate  infinite. 

The  Voice  at  Bogle's  was  invisible.  It  came  from  the 
kitchen,  and  did  not  shine  in  the  way  of  originality.  It  was 
a  heathen  Voice,  and  contented  itself  with  vain  repetitions  of 
exclamations  emitted  by  the  waitresses  concerning  food. 

Will  it  tire  you  to  be  told  again  that  Aileen  was  beautiful? 
Had  she  donned  a  few  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  clothes  and 
joined  the  Easter  parade,  and  had  you  seen  her,  you  would 
have  hastened  to  say  so  yourself. 

The  customers  at  Bogle's  were  her  slaves.     Six  tables  full 


52  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

she  could  wait  upon  at  once.  They  who  were  in  a  hurry 
restrained  their  impatience  for  the  joy  of  merely  gazing  upon 
her  swiftly  moving,  graceful  figure.  They  who  had  finished 
eating  ate  more  that  they  might  continue  in  the  light  of  her 
smiles.  Every  man  there — and  they  were  mostly  men — 
tried  to  make  his  impression  upon  her. 

Aileen  could  successfully  exchange  repartee  against  a 
dozen  at  once.  And  every  smile  that  she  sent  forth  lodged, 
like  pellets  from  a  scatter-gun,  in  as  many  hearts.  And  all 
this  while  she  would  be  performing  astounding  feats  with 
orders  of  pork  and  beans,  pot  roasts,  ham-and,  sausage-and- 
the-wheats,  and  any  quantity  of  things  on  the  iron  and  in  the 
pan  and  straight  up  and  on  the  side.  With  all  this  feasting 
and  flirting  and  merry  exchange  of  wit  Bogle's  came  mighty 
near  being  a  salon,  with  Aileen  for  its  Madame  Recamier. 

If  the  transients  were  entranced  by  the  fascinating  Aileen, 
the  regulars  were  her  adorers.  There  was  much  rivalry 
among  many  of  the  steady  customers.  Aileen  could  have  had 
an  engagement  every  evening.  At  least  twice  a  week  some 
one  took  her  to  a  theatre  or  to  a  dance.  One  stout  gentleman 
whom  she  and  Tildy  had  privately  christened  "The  Hog" 
presented  her  with  a  turquoise  ring.  Another  one  known  as 
"Freshy,"  who  rode  on  the  Traction  Company's  repair 
wagon,  was  going  to  give  her  a  poodle  as  soon  as  his  brother 
got  the  hauling  contract  in  the  Ninth.  And  the  man  who 
always  ate  spareribs  and  spinach  and  said  he  was  a  stock 
broker  asked  her  to  go  to  "Parsifal"  with  him. 

"I  don't  know  where  this  place  is,"  said  Aileen  while  talk- 
ing it  over  with  Tildy,  "but  the  wedding-ring's  got  to  be  on 
before  I  put  a  stitch  into  a  traveling  dress — ain't  that  right  .^^ 
Well,  I  guess!" 

But,  Tildy! 

In  steaming,  chattering,  cabbage-scented  Bogle's  there  was 
almost  a  heart  tragedy.  Tildy  with  the  blunt  nose,  the  hay- 
colored  hair,  the  freckled  skin,  the  bag-o'-meal  figure,  had 
never  had  an  admirer.  Not  a  man  followed  her  with  his 
eyes  when  she  went  to  and  fro  in  the  restaurant  save  now  and 


THE  BRIEF  DEBUT  OF  TILDY  53 

then  when  they  glared  with  the  beast-hunger  for  food.  None 
of  them  bantered  her  gaily  to  coquettish  interchanges  of  wit. 
None  of  them  loudly  "jollied"  her  of  mornings  as  they  did 
Aileen,  accusing  her,  when  the  eggs  were  slow  in  coming,  of 
late  hours  in  the  company  of  envied  swains.  No  one  had 
ever  given  her  a  turquoise  ring  or  invited  her  upon  a  voyage  to 
mysterious,  distant  "Parsifal." 

Tildy  was  a  good  waitress,  and  the  men  tolerated  her. 
They  who  sat  at  her  tables  spoke  to  her  briefly  with  quo- 
tations from  the  bill  of  fare;  and  then  raised  their  voices  in 
honeyed  and  otherwise-flavored  accents,  eloquently  addressed 
to  the  fair  Aileen.  They  writhed  in  their  chairs  to  gaze 
around  and  over  the  impending  form  of  Tildy,  that  Aileen's 
pulchritude  might  season  and  make  ambrosia  of  their  bacon 
and  eggs. 

And  Tildy  was  content  to  be  the  unwooed  drudge  if  Aileen 
could  receive  the  flattery  and  the  homage.  The  blunt  nose 
was  loyal  to  the  short  Grecian.  She  was  Aileen's  friend;  and 
she  was  glad  to  see  her  rule  hearts  and  wean  the  attention  of 
men  from  smoking  pot-pie  and  lemon  meringue.  But  deep 
below  our  freckles  and  hay-colored  hair  the  unhandsomest  of 
us  dream  of  a  prince  or  a  princess,  not  vicarious,  but  coming 
to  us  alone. 

There  was  a  morning  when  Aileen  tripped  in  to  work  with 
a  slightly  bruised  eye;  and  Tildy 's  solicitude  was  almost 
enough  to  heal  any  optic. 

"Fresh  guy,"  explained  Aileen,  "last  night  as  I  was  going 
home  at  Twenty-third  and  Sixth.  Sashayed  up,  so  he  did, 
and  made  a  break.  I  turned  him  down,  cold,  and  he  made  a 
sneak;  but  followed  me  down  to  Eighteenth,  and  tried  his  hot 
air  again.  Gee!  but  I  slapped  him  a  good  one,  side  of  the 
face.  Then  he  give  me  that  eye.  Does  it  look  real  awful, 
Til.'^  I  should  hate  that  Mr.  Nicholson  should  see  it  when  he 
comes  in  for  his  tea  and  toast  at  ten." 

Tildy  listened  to  the  adventure  with  breathless  admiration. 
No  man  had  ever  tried  to  follow  her.  She  was  safe  abroad 
at  any  hour  of  the  twenty-four.     What  bliss  it  must  have 


54  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

been  to  have  had  a  man  follow  one  and  black  one's  eye  for 
love! 

Among  the  customers  at  Bogle's  was  a  young  man  named 
Seeders,  who  worked  in  a  laundry  office.  Mr.  Seeders  was 
thin  and  had  hght  hair,  and  appeared  to  have  been  recently 
rough-dried  and  starched.  He  was  too  diffident  to  aspire  to 
Aileen's  notice;  so  he  usually  sat  at  one  of  Tildy's  tables, 
where  he  devoted  himself  to  silence  and  boiled  weakfish. 

One  day  when  Mr.  Seeders  came  in  to  dinner  he  had  been 
drinking  beer.  There  were  only  two  or  three  customers  in 
the  restaurant.  TMien  Mr.  Seeders  had  finished  his  weakfish 
he  got  up,  put  his  arm  around  Tildy's  waist,  kissed  her  loudly 
and  impudently,  walked  out  upon  the  street,  snapped  his 
fingers  in  the  direction  of  the  laundry,  and  hied  himself  to 
play  pennies  in  the  slot  machines  at  the  Amusement  Arcade. 

For  a  few  moments  Tildy  stood  petrified.  Then  she  was 
aware  of  Aileen  shaking  at  her  an  arch  fore-finger,  and  saying : 

"Why,  Til,  you  naughty  girl!  Ain't  you  getting  to  be 
a-^^ful,  Miss  Slyboots !  First  thing  I  know  you'll  be  stealing 
some  of  my  fellows.     I  must  keep  an  eye  on  you,  my  lady." 

Another  thing  dawned  upon  Tildy's  recovering  wits.  In 
a  moment  she  had  advanced  from  a  hopeless,  lowly  admirer 
to  be  an  Eve-sister  of  the  potent  Aileen.  She  herself  was  now 
a  man-charmer,  a  mark  for  Cupid,  a  Sabine  who  must  be  coy 
when  the  Romans  were  at  their  banquet  boards.  Man  had 
found  her  waist  achievable  and  her  lips  desirable.  The  sud- 
den and  amatory  Seeders  had,  as  it  were,  performed  for  her  a 
miraculous  piece  of  one-day  laundry  vvork.  He  had  taken 
the  sackcloth  of  her  uncomeliness,  had  washed,  dried, 
starched  and  ironed  it,  and  returned  it  to  her  sheer  em- 
broidered lawn — the  robe  of  Venus  herself. 

The  freckles  in  Tildy's  cheeks  merged  into  a  rosy  flush. 
Now  both  Circe  and  Psyche  peeped  from  her  brightened  eyes. 
Not  even  Aileen  herself  had  been  publicly  embraced  and 
kissed  in  the  restaurant. 

Tildy  could  not  keep  the  delightful  secret.  When  trade 
was  slack  she  went  and  stood  at  Bogle's  desk.     Her  eyes 


THE  BRIEF  DEBUT  OF  TILDY  55 

were  shining;  she  tried  not  to  let  her  words  sound  proud  and 
boastful. 

"A  gentleman  insulted  me  to-day,"  she  said.  "He  hugged 
me  around  the  waist  and  kissed  me." 

"That  so.?"  said  Bogle,  cracking  open  his  business  armor. 
"After  this  week  you  get  a  dollar  a  week  more." 

At  the  next  regular  meal  when  Tildy  set  food  before 
customers  with  whom  she  had  acquaintance  she  said  to 
each  of  them  modestly,  as  one  whose  merit  needed  no  bol- 
stering: 

"A  gentleman  insulted  me  to-day  in  the  restaurant.  He 
put  his  arm  around  my  waist  and  kissed  me." 

The  diners  accepted  the  revelation  in  various  ways — some 
incredulously,  some  with  congratulations;  others  turned 
upon  her  the  stream  of  badinage  that  had  hitherto  been 
directed  at  Aileen  alone.  And  Tildy's  heart  swelled  in  her 
bosom,  for  she  saw  at  last  the  towers  of  Romance  rise  above 
the  horizon  of  the  gray  plain  in  which  she  had  for  so  long 
traveled. 

For  two  days  Mr.  Seeders  came  not  again.  During  that 
time  Tildy  established  herself  firmly  as  a  woman  to  be  wooed. 
She  bought  ribbons,  and  arranged  her  hair  like  Aileen's,  and 
tightened  her  waist  two  inches.  She  had  a  thrilling  but 
delightful  fear  that  Mr.  Seeders  would  rush  in  suddenly  and 
shoot  her  with  a  pistol.  He  must  have  loved  her  desperately; 
and  impulsive  lovers  are  always  blindly  jealous. 

Even  Aileen  had  not  been  shot  at  with  a  pistol.  And  then 
Tildy  rather  hoped  that  he  would  not  shoot  at  her,  for  she 
was  always  loyal  to  Aileen;  and  she  did  not  want  to  over- 
shadow her  friend. 

At  4  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Mr.  Seeders 
came  in.  There  were  no  customers  at  the  tables.  At  the 
back  end  of  the  restaurant  Tildy  was  refilling  the  mustard 
pots  and  Aileen  was  quartering  pies.  Mr.  Seeders  walked 
back  to  where  they  stood. 

Tildy  looked  up  and  saw  him,  gasped,  and  pressed  the 
mustard  spoon  against  her  heart.     A  red  hair  bow  was  in  her 


56  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

hair;  she  wore  Venus's  Eighth  Avenue  badge,  the  blue  bead 
necklace  with  the  swinging  silver  symbolic  heart. 

Mr.  Seeders  was  flushed  and  embarrassed.  He  plunged 
one  hand  into  his  hip  pocket  and  the  other  into  a  fresh 
pumpkin  pie. 

"Miss  Tildy,"  said  he,  "I  want  to  apologize  for  what  I 
done  the  other  evenin'.  Tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  pretty  well 
tanked  up  or  I  wouldn't  of  done  it.  I  wouldn't  do  no  lady 
that  a-way  when  I  was  sober.  So  I  hope,  Miss  Tildy,  you'll 
accept  my  'pology,  and  believe  that  I  wouldn't  of  done  it  if 
I'd  known  what  I  was  doin'  and  hadn't  of  been  drunk." 

With  this  handsome  plea  Mr.  Seeders  backed  away,  and 
departed,  feeling  that  reparation  had  been  made. 

But  behind  the  convenient  screen  Tildy  had  thrown  herself 
flat  upon  a  table  among  the  butter  chips  and  the  coffee  cups, 
and  was  sobbing  her  heart  out — out  and  back  again  to  the 
gray  plain  wherein  travel  they  with  blunt  noses  and  hay- 
colored  hair.  From  her  knot  she  had  torn  the  red  hair  bow 
and  cast  it  upon  the  floor.  Seeders  she  despised  utterly;  she 
had  but  taken  his  kiss  as  that  of  a  pioneer  and  prophetic 
prince  who  might  have  set  the  clocks  going  and  the  pages  to 
running  in  fairyland.  But  the  kiss  had  been  maudlin  and 
unmeant;  the  court  had  not  stirred  at  the  false  alarm;  she 
must  forevermore  remain  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 

Yet  not  all  was  lost.  Aileen's  arm  was  around  her;  and 
Tildy 's  red  hand  groped  among  the  butter  chips  till  it  found 
the  warm  clasp  of  her  friend's. 

"Don't  you  fret.  Til,"  said  Aileen,  who  did  not  understand 
entirely.  "That  turnip-faced  little  clothespin  of  a  Seeders 
ain't  worth  it.  He  ain't  anything  of  a  gentleman  or  he 
wouldn't  ever  of  apologized." 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER 

From  The  Voice  of  the  City.  First  published  in  The  World,  May 
29,  1904.  Few  reviews  of  O.  Henry  fail  to  acclaim  him  as  "The 
little  shop-girl's  knight  unto  the  end."  "The  reforms  that  I 
attempted  m  behalf  of  the  shop-girls  of  New  York,"  said  Colonel 
Roosevelt,  "were  suggested  by  the  stories  of  O.  Henry."  The  more 
notable  of  these  stories  in  the  order  of  their  publication  are:  A  Lick- 
penny  Lover,  An  Unfinished  Story,  Elsie  in  New  York,  Brickdust  Row, 
and  The  Trimmed  Lamp.  There  is  less  reform  purpose,  however,  in 
A  Lickpenny  Lover  than  m  any  of  the  others,  but  the  art  is  consum- 
mate. Coney  Island  may  so  dominate  the  working  girl's  imagi- 
nation as  to  make  her  mistake  the  sham  for  the  real,  the  imitation 
for  the  original,  the  sjTnbol  for  the  thing  symbolized — m  some  such 
thought  the  germ  of  the  story  is  probably  to  be  found.  Masie's 
vocabulary  had  become  narrowed,  not  in  the  number  of  words  but 
in  their  connotation.  All  of  us  are  Masies  more  or  less  when  we 
read  Saint  John,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  or  Browning.  We 
understand  the  words  but  the  reach  and  altitude  of  the  ideas  are 
bounded  by  the  reach  and  altitude  of  our  own  experience. 

There  were  3,000  girls  in  the  Biggest  Store.  Masie  was 
one  of  them.  She  was  eighteen  and  a  saleslady  in  the  gents' 
gloves.  Here  she  became  versed  in  two  varieties  of  human 
beings — the  kind  of  gents  who  buy  their  gloves  in  department 
stores  and  the  kind  of  women  who  buy  gloves  for  unfortunate 
gents.  Besides  this  wide  knowledge  of  the  human  species, 
Masie  had  acquired  other  information.  She  had  listened  to 
the  proniulgated  wisdom  of  the  2,999  other  girls  and  had 
stored  it  in  a  brain  that  was  as  secretive  and  wary  as  that  of  a 
Maltese  cat.  Perhaps  nature,  foreseeing  that  she  would  lack 
wise  counsellors,  had  mingled  the  saving  ingredient  of  shrewd- 
ness along  with  her  beauty,  as  she  has  endowed  the  silver  fox 
of  the  priceless  fur  above  the  other  animals  with  cunning. 

57 


58  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

For  Masie  was  beautiful.  She  was  a  deep-tinted  blonde, 
with  the  calm  poise  of  a  lady  who  cooks  butter  cakes  in  a 
window.  She  stood  behind  her  counter  in  the  Biggest  Store; 
and  as  you  closed  your  hand  over  the  tape-line  for  your 
glove  measure  you  thought  of  Hebe;  and  as  you  looked  again 
you  wondered  how  she  had  come  by  Minerva's  eyes. 

When  the  floorwalker  was  not  looking  Masie  chewed  tutti 
frutti;  when  he  was  looking  she  gazed  up  as  if  at  the  clouds 
and  smiled  wistfully. 

That  is  the  shop-girl  smile,  and  I  enjoin  you  to  shun  it  unless 
you  are  well  fortified  with  callosity  of  the  heart,  caramels,  and 
a  congeniality  for  the  capers  of  Cupid.  This  smile  belonged 
to  Masie's  recreation  hours  and  not  to  the  store;  but  the  floor- 
walker must  have  his  own.  He  is  the  Shylock  of  the  stores. 
WTien  he  comes  nosing  around,  the  bridge  of  his  nose  is  a  toll- 
bridge.  It  is  goo-goo  eyes  or  "git"  when  he  looks  toward  a 
pretty  girl.  Of  course  not  all  floorwalkers  are  thus.  Only  a 
few  days  ago  the  papers  printed  news  of  one  over  eighty  years 
of  age. 

One  day  Irving  Carter,  painter,  millionaire,  traveler,  poet, 
automobilist,  happened  to  enter  the  Biggest  Store.  It  is  due 
to  him  to  add  that  his  visit  was  not  voluntary.  Filial  duty 
took  him  by  the  collar  and  dragged  him  inside,  while  his 
mother  philandered  among  the  bronze  and  terra-cotta 
statuettes. 

Carter  strolled  across  to  the  glove  counter  in  order  to  shoot 
a  few  minutes  on  the  wing.  His  need  for  gloves  was  genuine; 
he  had  forgotten  to  bring  a  pair  with  him.  But  his  action 
hardly  calls  for  apology,  because  he  had  never  heard  of  glove- 
counter  flirtations. 

As  he  neared  the  vicinity  of  his  fate  he  hesitated,  suddenly 
conscious  of  this  unknown  phase  of  Cupid's  less  worthy 
profession. 

Three  or  four  cheap  fellows,  sonorously  garbed,  were  lean- 
ing over  the  counters,  wrestling  with  the  mediatorial  hand- 
coverings,  while  giggling  girls  played  vivacious  seconds  to 
their  lead  upon  the  strident  string  of  coquetry.     Carter  would 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER  59 

have  retreated,  but  he  had  gone  too  far.  Masie  confronted 
him  behind  her  counter  with  a  questioning  look  in  eyes  as 
coldly,  beautifully,  warmly  blue  as  the  glint  of  summer  sun- 
shine on  an  iceberg  drifting  in  Southern  seas. 

And  then  Irving  Carter,  painter,  millionaire,  etc.,  felt  a 
warm  flush  rise  to  his  aristocratically  pale  face.  But  not 
from  diffidence.  The  blush  was  intellectual  in  origin.  He 
knew  in  a  moment  that  he  stood  in  the  ranks  of  the  ready- 
made  youths  who  wooed  the  giggling  girls  at  other  counters. 
Himself  leaned  against  the  oaken  trysting  place  of  a  cockney 
Cupid  with  a  desire  in  his  heart  for  the  favor  of  a  glove  sales- 
girl. He  was  no  more  than  Bill  and  Jack  and  Mickey.  And 
then  he  felt  a  sudden  tolerance  for  them,  and  an  elating, 
courageous  contempt  for  the  conventions  upon  which  he  had 
fed,  and  an  unhesitating  determination  to  have  this  perfect 
creature  for  his  own. 

When  the  gloves  were  paid  for  and  wrapped  Carter  lingered 
for  a  moment.  The  dimples  at  the  corners  of  Masie's  dam- 
ask mouth  deepened.  All  gentlemen  w^ho  bought  gloves  lin- 
gered in  just  that  way.  She  curved  an  arm,  showing  like 
Psyche's  through  her  shirt-waist  sleeve,  and  rested  an  elbow 
upon  the  show-case  edge. 

Carter  had  never  before  encountered  a  situation  of  which 
he  had  not  been  perfect  master.  But  now  he  stood  far  more 
awkward  than  Bill  or  Jack  or  Mickey.  He  had  no  chance 
of  meeting  this  beautiful  girl  socially.  His  mind  struggled  to 
recall  the  nature  and  habits  of  shop-girls  as  he  had  read  or 
heard  of  them.  Somehow  he  had  received  the  idea  that  they 
sometimes  did  not  insist  too  strictly  upon  the  regular  channels 
of  introduction.  His  heart  beat  loudly  at  the  thought  of 
proposing  an  unconventional  meeting  with  this  lovely  and 
virginal  being.  But  the  tumult  in  his  heart  gave  him  cour- 
age. 

After  a  few  friendly  and  well-received  remarks  on  general 
subjects,  he  laid  his  card  by  her  hand  on  the  counter. 

"Will  you  please  pardon  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  seem  too  bold; 
but  I  earnestly  hope  you  will  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing 


60  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

you  again.  There  is  my  name;  I  assure  you  that  it  is  with 
the  greatest  respect  that  I  ask  the  favor  of  becoming  one  of 
your  fr acquaintances.  May  I  not  hope  for  the  privi- 
lege?" 

Masie  knew  men — especially  men  who  buy  gloves.  With- 
out hesitation  she  looked  him  frankly  and  smilingly  in  the 
eyes,  and  said: 

"Sure.  I  guess  you're  all  right.  I  don't  usually  go  out 
with  strange  gentlemen,  though.  It  ain't  quite  ladylike. 
When  should  you  want  to  see  me  again  .^" 

"As  soon  as  I  may,"  said  Carter.  "If  you  would  allow  me 
to  call  at  your  home,  I " 

Masie  laughed  musically.  "Oh,  gee,  no!"  she  said,  em- 
phatically. "  If  you  could  see  our  flat  once !  There's  five  of 
us  in  three  rooms.  I'd  just  like  to  see  ma's  face  if  I  w^as  to 
bring  a  gentleman  friend  there!" 

"Anywhere,  then,"  said  the  enamored  Carter,  "that  will 
be  convenient  to  you." 

"Say,"  suggested  Masie,  with  a  bright-idea  look  in  her 
peach-blow  face;  "I  guess  Thursday  night  will  about  suit  me. 
Suppose  you  come  to  the  corner  of  Eighth  Avenue  and  Forty- 
eighth  Street  at  7 :30.  I  hve  right  near  the  corner.  But  I've 
got  to  be  back  home  by  eleven.  Ma  never  lets  me  stay  out 
after  eleven." 

Carter  promised  gratefully  to  keep  the  tryst,  and  then 
hastened  to  his  mother,  who  was  looking  about  for  him  to 
ratify  her  purchase  of  a  bronze  Diana. 

A  salesgirl,  with  small  eyes  and  an  obtuse  nose,  strolled 
near  Masie,  with  a  friendly  leer. 

"Did  you  make  a  hit  with  his  nobs,  Masie.^"  she  asked, 
familiarly. 

"The  gentleman  asked  permission  to  call,"  answered 
Masie,  with  the  grand  air,  as  she  slipped  Carter's  card  into 
the  bosom  of  her  waist. 

"Permission  to  call!"  echoed  small  eyes,  with  a  snigger. 
"Did  he  say  anything  about  dinner  in  the  Waldorf  and  a 
spin  in  his  auto  afterward  .f*" 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER  61 

''*0h,  cheese  it!"  said  Masie,  wearily.  "You've  been  used 
to  swell  things,  I  don't  think.  You've  had  a  swelled  head 
ever  since  that  hose-cart  driver  took  you  out  to  a  chop  suey 
joint.  No,  he  never  mentioned  the  Waldorf;  but  there's  a 
Fifth  Avenue  address  on  his  card,  and  if  he  buys  the  supper 
you  can  bet  your  life  there  won't  be  no  pigtail  on  the  waiter 
what  takes  the  order." 

As  Carter  glided  away  from  the  Biggest  Store  with  his 
mother  in  his  electric  runabout,  he  bit  his  lip  with  a  dull  pain 
at  his  heart.  He  knew  that  love  had  come  to  him  for  the 
first  time  in  all  the  twenty-nine  years  of  his  life.  And  that 
the  object  of  it  should  make  so  readily  an  appointment  with 
him  at  a  street  corner,  though  it  was  a  step  toward  his  desires, 
tortured  him  with  misgivings. 

Carter  did  not  know  the  shop-girl.  He  did  not  know  that 
her  home  is  often  either  a  scarcely  habitable  tiny  room  or  a 
domicile  filled  to  overflowing  with  kith  and  kin.  The  street- 
corner  is  her  parlor;  the  park  is  her  drawing-room;  the  avenue 
is  her  garden  walk;  yet  for  the  most  part  she  is  as  inviolate 
mistress  of  herself  in  them  as  is  my  lady  inside  her  tapestried 
chamber. 

One  evening  at  dusk,  two  weeks  after  their  first  meeting. 
Carter  and  Masie  strolled  arm-in-arm  into  a  little,  dimly-lit 
park.  They  found  a  bench,  tree-shadowed  and  secluded,  and 
sat  there. 

For  the  first  time  his  arm  stole  gently  around  her.  Her 
golden-bronze  head  slid  restfully  against  his  shoulder. 

"Gee!"  sighed  Masie,  thankfully.  "Why  didn't  you  ever 
think  of  that  before.^" 

"Masie,"  said  Carter,  earnestly,  "yo^  surely  know  that 
I  love  you.  I  ask  you  sincerely  to  marry  me.  You  know  me 
well  enough  by  this  time  to  have  no  doubts  of  me.  I  want 
you,  and  I  must  have  you.  I  care  nothing  for  the  difference 
in  our  stations." 

"What  is  the  difference.'^"  asked  Masie,  curiously. 

"Well,  there  isn't  any,"  said  Carter,  quickly,  "except  in 
the  minds  of  foolish  people.     It  is  in  my  power  to  give  you  a 


62  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

life  of  luxury.  My  social  position  is  beyond  dispute,  and  my 
means  are  ample." 

"They  all  say  that,"  remarked  Masie.  "It's  the  kid  they 
aU  give  you.  I  suppose  you  really  work  in  a  delicatessen  or 
follow  the  races.     I  ain't  as  green  as  I  look." 

"I  can  furnish  you  aU  the  proofs  you  want,"  said  Carter, 
gently.  "And  I  want  you,  Masie.  I  loved  you  the  first  day 
I  saw  you." 

"They  all  do,"  said  Masie,  with  an  amused  laugh,  "to  hear 
'em  talk.  If  I  could  meet  a  man  that  got  stuck  on  me  the 
third  time  he'd  seen  me  I  think  I'd  get  mashed  on  him." 

"Please  don't  say  such  things,"  pleaded  Carter.  "Listen 
to  me,  dear.  Ever  since  I  first  looked  into  your  eyes  you 
have  been  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me." 

"Oh,  ain't  you  the  kidder!"  smiled  Masie.  "How  many 
other  girls  did  you  ever  teU  that-f^" 

But  Carter  persisted.  And  at  length  he  reached  the 
flimsy,  fluttering  little  soul  of  the  shop-girl  that  existed  some- 
where deep  down  in  her  lovely  bosom.  His  words  penetrated 
the  heart  whose  very  lightness  was  its  safest  armor.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  that  saw.  And  a  warm  glow 
visited  her  cool  cheeks.  Tremblingly,  a^-fully,  her  moth 
w^ngs  closed,  and  she  seemed  about  to  settle  upon  the  flower 
of  love.  Some  faint  glimmer  of  life  and  its  possibilities  on  the 
other  side  of  her  glove  counter  dawned  upon  her.  Carter 
felt  the  change  and  crowded  the  opportunity. 

"Marry  me,  Masie,"  he  whispered  softly,  "and  we  will  go 
away  from  this  ugly  city  to  beautiful  ones.  We  will  forget 
work  and  business,  and  life  will  be  one  long  holiday.  I  know 
where  I  should  take  you — I  have  been  there  often.  Just 
think  of  a  shore  where  summer  is  eternal,  where  the  waves 
are  always  rippling  on  the  lovely  beach  and  the  people  are 
happy  and  free  as  children.  We  will  sail  to  those  shores  and 
remain  there  as  long  as  you  please.  In  one  of  those  far-away 
cities  there  are  grand  and  lovely  palaces  and  towers  full  of 
beautiful  pictures  and  statues.  The  streets  of  the  city  are 
water^  and  one  travels  about  in " 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER  63 

"I  know,"  said  Masie,  sitting  up  suddenly.     "Gondolas." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Carter. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Masie. 

"And  then,"  continued  Carter,  "we  will  travel  on  and  see 
whatever  we  wish  in  the  world.  After  the  European  cities 
we  will  visit  India  and  the  ancient  cities  there,  and  ride  on 
elephants  and  see  the  wonderful  temples  of  the  Hindoos  and 
Brahmins  and  the  Japanese  gardens  and  the  camel  trains  and 
chariot  races  in  Persia,  and  all  the  queer  sights  of  foreign 
countries.     Don't  you  think  you  would  like  it,  Masie.^^" 

Masie  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  think  we  had  better  be  going  home,"  she  said,  coolly. 
"It's  getting  late." 

Carter  humored  her.  He  had  come  to  know  her  varying, 
thistle-down  moods,  and  that  it  was  useless  to  combat  them. 
But  he  felt  a  certain  happy  triumph.  He  had  held  for  a 
moment,  though  but  by  a  silken  thread,  the  soul  of  his  wild 
Psyche,  and  hope  was  stronger  within  him.  Once  she  had 
folded  her  wings  and  her  cool  hand  had  closed  about  his  o^\ti. 

At  the  Biggest  Store  the  next  day  Masie's  chum,  Lulu,  way- 
laid her  in  an  angle  of  the  counter. 

"How  are  you  and  your  swell  friend  making  it?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  him?"  said  Masie,  patting  her  side  curls.  "He  ain't 
in  it  any  more.  Say,  Lu,  what  do  you  think  that  fellow 
wanted  me  to  do?" 

"Go  on  the  stage?"  guessed  Lulu,  breathlessly. 

"Nit;  he's  too  cheap  a  guy  for  that.  He  wanted  me  to 
marry  him  and  go  down  to  Coney  Island  for  a  wedding  tour ! " 


THE  PENDULUM 

From  The  Trimmed  Lamp.  First  published  in  The  World,  June 
12,  1904.  Habit,  especially  the  alternation  of  resolve  and  relapse, 
furnished  O.  Henry  with  rich  story  material.  He  first  approached 
the  theme  in  The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  (March,  1902),  which  was 
quickly  followed  by  Round  the  Circle  (see  Waifs  and  Strays,  pages 
17-24),  the  latter  being  little  more  than  a  first  draft  of  The  Pendu- 
lum. Then  followed  A  Comedy  in  Rubber,  From  the  Cabby's  Seat, 
The  Girl  and  the  Habit,  and  The  Harbinger  (March  18,  1906).  His 
text  in  The  Girl  and  the  Habit  is  from  the  dictionary:  "Habit — a 
tendency  or  aptitude  acquired  by  custom  or  frequent  repetition." 
In  The  Harbinger  he  hails  habit  as  "the  power  that  keeps  the  earth 
from  flying  to  pieces,  though  there  is  some  silly  theory  of  gravi- 
tation." "Habit,"  says  William  James  in  his  great  chapter  on  the 
subject,  "is  thus  the  enormous  fly-wheel  of  society,  its  most  precious 
conservative  agent.  It  alone  is  what  keeps  us  all  within  the  bounds 
of  ordinance."  Read  also  Maupassant's  stoiy  called  An  Artist  and 
Armistead  Churchill  Gordon's  Baytop  (in  Omviirandy,  Scribners, 
1917).  The  latter  is  a  happy  illustration  of  Professor  James's  re- 
mark about  habit  in  animals:  "Riderless  cavalry-horses,  at  many  a 
battle,  have  been  seen  to  come  together  and  go  through  their  custom- 
ary evolutions  at  the  sound  of  the  bugle-call." 

"Eighty-First  Street — let  'em  out,  please,"  yelled  the 
shepherd  in  blue. 

A  flock  of  citizen  sheep  scrambled  out  and  another  flock 
scrambled  aboard.  Ding-ding!  The  cattle  cars  of  the 
Manhattan  Elevated  rattled  away,  and  John  Perkins  drifted 
down  the  stairway  of  the  station  with  the  released  flock. 

John  walked  slowly  toward  his  flat.  Slowly,  because  in 
the  lexicon  of  his  daily  life  there  was  no  such  word  as  "per- 
haps." There  are  no  surprises  awaiting  a  man  who  has  been 
married  two  years  and  lives  in  a  flat.     As  he  walked  John 

64 


THE  PENDULUM  65 

Per'kins  prophesied  to  himself  with  gloomy  and  downtrodden 
cynicism  the  foregone  conclusions  of  the  monotonous  day. 

Katy  would  meet  him  at  the  door  with  a  kiss  flavored  with 
cold  cream  and  butter-scotch.  He  would  remove  his  coat, 
sit  upon  a  macadamized  lounge,  and  read,  in  the  evening 
paper,  of  Russians  and  Japs  slaughtered  by  the  deadly  lino- 
type. For  dinner  there  would  be  pot  roast,  a  salad  flavored 
with  a  dressing  warranted  not  to  crack  or  injure  the  leather, 
stewed  rhubarb,  and  the  bottle  of  strawberry  marmalade 
blushing  at  the  certificate  of  chemical  purity  on  its  label. 
After  dinner  Katy  would  show  him  the  new  patch  in  her  crazy 
quilt  that  the  iceman  had  cut  for  her  off  the  end  of  his  four-in- 
hand.  At  half -past  seven  they  would  spread  newspapers 
over  the  furniture  to  catch  the  pieces  of  plastering  that  fell 
when  the  fat  man  in  the  flat  overhead  began  to  take  his 
physical  culture  exercises.  Exactly  at  eight  Hickey  &  Moo- 
ney,  of  the  vaudeville  team  (unbooked)  in  the  flat  across  the 
hall,  would  yield  to  the  gentle  influence  of  delirium  tremens 
and  begin  to  overturn  chairs  under  the  delusion  that 
Hammerstein  was  pursuing  them  with  a  five-hundred-dollar- 
a-week  contract.  Then  the  gent  at  the  window  across  the 
air-shaft  would  get  out  his  flute;  the  nightly  gas  leak  would 
steal  forth  to  frolic  in  the  highways;  the  dumbwaiter  would 
slip  off  its  trolley;  the  janitor  would  drive  Mrs.  Zanowitski's 
five  children  once  more  across  the  Yalu;  the  lady  with  the 
champagne  shoes  and  the  Skye  terrier  would  trip  downstairs 
and  paste  her  Thursday  name  over  her  bell  and  letter-box — 
and  the  evening  routme  of  the  Frogmore  flats  would  be  under 
way. 

John  Perkins  knew  these  things  would  happen.  And  he 
knew  that  at  a  quarter  past  eight  he  would  summon  his  nerve 
and  reach  for  his  hat,  and  that  his  wife  would  deliver  this 
speech  in  a  querulous  tone: 

"Now,  where  are  you  going,  I'd  like  to  know,  John  Per- 
kins?" 

"Thought  I'd  drop  up  to  McCloskey's,"  he  would  answer, 
"and  play  a  game  or  two  of  pool  with  the  fellows." 


66  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Of  late  such  had  been  John  Perkins's  habit.  At  ten  or 
eleven  he  would  return.  Sometimes  Katy  would  be  asleep; 
sometimes  waiting  up,  ready  to  melt  in  the  crucible  of  her  ire 
a  little  more  gold  plating  from  the  \^Tought  steel  chains  of 
matrimony.  For  these  things  Cupid  will  have  to  answer 
when  he  stands  at  the  bar  of  justice  with  his  victims  from  the 
Frogmore  flats. 

To-night  John  Perkins  encountered  a  tremendous  upheaval 
of  the  commonplace  when  he  reached  his  door.  No  Katy 
was  there  with  her  affectionate,  confectionate  kiss.  The 
three  rooms  seemed  in  portentous  disorder.  All  about  lay 
her  things  in  confusion.  Shoes  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
curling  tongs,  hair  bows,  kimonos,  powder  box,  jumbled 
together  on  dresser  and  chairs — this  was  not  Xaty's  way. 
With  a  sinking  heart  John  saw  the  comb  with  a  curling  cloud 
of  her  brown  hair  among  its  teeth.  Some  unusual  hurry  and 
perturbation  must  have  possessed  her,  for  she  always  care- 
fully placed  these  combings  in  the  little  blue  vase  on  the 
mantel  to  be  some  day  formed  into  the  coveted  feminine 
"rat." 

Hanging  conspicuously  to  the  gas  jet  by  a  string  was  a 
folded  paper.  John  seized  it.  It  was  a  note  from  his  wife 
running  thus: 

''Dear  John:  I  just  had  a  telegram  saying  mother  is  very 
sick,  I  am  going  to  take  the  4-30  train.  Brother  Sam  is  going 
to  meet  me  at  the  depot  there.  There  is  cold  mutton  in  the  ice  box. 
I  hope  it  isn't  her  quinzy  again.  Pay  the  milkman  50  cents. 
She  had  it  bad  last  spring.  DonH  forget  to  write  to  the  company 
about  the  gas  meter,  and  your  good  socks  are  in  the  top  drawer. 
I  will  write  to-morrow. 

Hastily,  katy:' 

Never  during  their  two  years  of  matrimony  had  he  and 
Katy  been  separated  for  a  night.  John  read  the  note  over 
and  over  in  a  dumbfounded  way.  Here  was  a  break  in  a 
routine  that  had  never  varied,  and  it  left  him  dazed. 


THE  PENDULUM  67 

There  on  the  back  of  a  chair  hung,  pathetically  empty  and 
formless,  the  red  wrapper  with  black  dots  that  she  always 
wore  while  getting  the  meals.  Her  week-day  clothes  had 
been  tossed  here  and  there  in  her  haste.  A  little  paper  bag  of 
her  favorite  butter-scotch  lay  with  its  string  yet  unwound. 
A  daily  paper  sprawled  on  the  floor,  gaping  rectangularly 
where  a  railroad  time-table  had  been  clipped  from  it.  Every- 
thing in  the  room  spoke  of  a  loss,  of  an  essence  gone,  of  its  soul 
and  life  departed.  John  Perkins  stood  among  the  dead  re- 
mains with  a  queer  feeling  of  desolation  in  his  heart. 

He  began  to  set  the  rooms  tidy  as  well  as  he  could.  When 
he  touched  her  clothes  a  thrill  of  something  like  terror  went 
through  him.  He  had  never  thought  what  existence  would 
be  without  Katy.  She  had  become  so  thoroughly  annealed 
into  his  life  that  she  was  like  the  air  he  breathed — necessary 
but  scarcely  noticed.  Now,  without  warning,  she  was  gone, 
vanished,  as  completely  absent  as  if  she  had  never  existed. 
Of  course  it  would  be  only  for  a  few  days,  or  at  most  a  week 
or  two,  but  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  very  hand  of  death  had 
pointed  a  finger  at  his  secure  and  uneventful  home. 

John  dragged  the  cold  mutton  from  the  ice-box,  made 
coffee,  and  sat  down  to  a  lonely  meal  face  to  face  with  the 
strawberry  marmalade's  shameless  certificate  of  purity. 
Bright  among  withdrawn  blessings  now  appeared  to  him  the 
ghosts  of  pot  roasts  and  the  salad  with  tan  polish  dressing. 
His  home  was  dismantled.  A  quinzied  mother-in-law  had 
knocked  his  lares  and  penates  sky-high.  After  his  solitary 
meal  John  sat  at  a  front  window. 

He  did  not  care  to  smoke.  Outside  the  city  roared  to  him 
to  come  join  in  its  dance  of  folly  and  pleasure.  The  night 
was  his.  He  might  go  forth  unquestioned  and  thrum  the 
strings  of  jollity  as  free  as  any  gay  bachelor  there.  He  might 
carouse  and  wander  and  have  his  fling  until  dawn  if  he  liked; 
and  there  would  be  no  wrathful  Katy  waiting  for  him,  bearing 
the  chalice  that  held  the  dregs  of  his  joy.  He  might  play 
pool  at  McCloskey's  with  his  roistering  friends  until  Aurora 
dimmed  the  electric  bulbs  if  he  chose.     The  hymeneal  strings 


68  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

that  had  curbed  him  always  when  the  Frogmore  flats  had 
palled  upon  him  were  loosened.     Katy  was  gone. 

John  Perkins  was  not  accustomed  to  analyzing  his 
emotions.  But  as  he  sat  in  his  Katy-bereft  10x12  parlor 
he  hit  unerringly  upon  the  keynote  of  his  discomfort.  He 
knew  now  that  Katy  was  necessary  to  his  happiness.  His 
feeling  for  her,  lulled  into  unconsciousness  by  the  dull  round 
of  domesticity,  had  been  sharply  stirred  by  the  loss  of  her 
presence.  Has  it  not  been  dinned  into  us  by  proverb  and 
sermon  and  fable  that  we  never  prize  the  music  till  the  sweet- 
voiced  bird  has  flown — or  in  other  no  less  florid  and  true 
utterances? 

*'I'm  a  double-dyed  dub,"  mused  John  Perkins,  "the  way 
I've  been  treating  Katy.  Off  every  night  playing  pool  and 
bumming  with  the  boys  instead  of  staying  home  with  her. 
The  poor  girl  here  all  alone  with  nothing  to  amuse  her,  and 
me  acting  that  way !  John  Perkins,  you're  the  worst  kind  of 
a  shine.  I'm  going  to  make  it  up  for  the  little  girl.  I'll  take 
her  out  and  let  her  see  some  amusement.  And  I'll  cut  out 
the  McCloskey  gang  right  from  this  minute." 

Yes,  there  was  the  city  roaring  outside  for  John  Perkins  to 
come  dance  in  the  train  of  Momus.  And  at  McCloskey 's  the 
boys  were  knocking  the  balls  idly  into  the  pockets  against  the 
hour  for  the  nightly  game.  But  no  primrose  w^ay  nor  clicking 
cue  could  woo  the  remorseful  soul  of  Perkins  the  bereft.  The 
thing  that  was  his,  lightly  held  and  half  scorned,  had  been 
taken  away  from  him,  and  he  wanted  it.  Backward  to  a 
certain  man  named  Adam,  whom  the  cherubim  bounced 
from  the  orchard,  could  Perkins,  the  remors/eful,  trace  his 
descent. 

Near  the  right  hand  of  John  Perkins  stood  a  chair.  On  the 
back  of  it  stood  Katy's  blue  shirtwaist.  It  still  retained 
something  of  her  contour.  Midway  of  the  sleeves  were  fine, 
individual  wrinkles  made  by  the  movements  of  her  arms  in 
working  for  his  comfort  and  pleasure.  A  delicate  but  im- 
pelling odor  of  blue-bells  came  from  it.  John  took  it  and 
looked   long   and   soberly   at   the   unresponsive   grenadine 


THE  PENDULUM  69 

Katy  had  never  been  unresponsive.  Tears: — yes,  tears — 
came  into  John  Perkins's  eyes.  When  she  came  back  things 
would  be  different.  He  would  make  up  for  all  his  neglect. 
What  was  life  without  her? 

The  door  opened.  Katy  walked  in  carrying  a  little  hand 
satchel.     John  stared  at  her  stupidly. 

"My!  I'm  glad  to  get  back,"  said  Katy.  "Ma  wasn't 
sick  to  amount  to  anything.  Sam  was  at  the  depot,  and  said 
she  just  had  a  little  spell,  and  got  all  right  soon  after  they 
telegraphed.  So  I  took  the  next  train  back.  I'm  just  dying 
for  a  cup  of  coffee." 

Nobody  heard  the  click  and  rattle  of  the  cog-wheels  as  the 
third-floor  front  of  the  Frogmore  flats  buzzed  its  machinery 
back  into  the  Order  of  Things.  A  band  slipped,  a  spring  was 
touched,  the  gear  was  adjusted,  and  the  wheels  revolved  in 
their  old  orbit. 

John  Perkins  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  8.15.  He 
reached  for  his  hat  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Now,  where  are  you  going,  I'd  like  to  know,  John  Per^ 
kins?"  asked  Katy,  in  a  querulous  tone. 

"Thought  I'd  drop  up  to  McCloskey's,"  said  John,  "and 
play  a  game  or  two  of  pool  with  the  fellows." 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA 

From  The  Voice  of  the  City.  First  published  in  The  World,  July 
17,  1904.  "There  was  a  certain  Caliph  of  Bagdad,"  says  O.  Henry 
in  The  Caliph  and  the  Cad,  written  a  few  months  before  Transients  in 
Arcadia,  "who  was  accustomed  to  go  dowTi  among  the  poor  and 
lowly  for  the  solace  obtained  from  the  relation  of  their  tales  and 
histories.  Is  it  not  strange  that  the  humble  and  poverty-stricken 
have  not  availed  themselves  of  the  pleasure  they  might  glean  by 
donning  diamonds  and  silks  and  playing  Caliph  among  the  haunts 
of  the  upper  world  ^  There  was  one  who  saw  the  possibilities  of  thus 
turning  the  tables  on  Haroun  al  Raschid.  His  name  was  Corny 
Brannigan. "  No,  his  name  was  O.  Henry.  He  not  only  turned  the 
tables  on  Haroun  al  Raschid  but  illustrated  a  new  phase  of  psy- 
chology and  colonized  a  new  area  for  the  short  story. 

There  is  a  hotel  on  Broadway  that  has  escaped  discovery 
by  the  summer-resort  promoters.  It  is  deep  and  wide  and 
cool.  Its  rooms  are  finished  in  dark  oak  of  a  low  temperature. 
Home-made  breezes  and  deep-green  shrubbery  give  it  the 
delights  without  the  inconveniences  of  the  Adirondacks. 
One  can  mount  its  broad  staircases  or  glide  dreamily  upward 
in  its  aerial  elevators,  attended  by  guides  in  brass  buttons, 
with  a  serene  joy  that  Alpine  climbers  have  never  attained. 
T^ere  is  a  chef  in  its  kitchen  who  will  prepare  for  you  brook 
trout  better  than  the  White  Mountains  ever  served,  sea  food 
that  would  turn  Old  Point  Comfort— "by  Gad,  sah!"— 
green  with  envy,  and  Maine  venison  that  would  melt  the 
oflScial  heart  of  a  game  warden. 

A  few  have  found  out  this  oasis  in  the  July  desert  of 
Manhattan.  During  that  month  you  will  see  the  hotel's 
reduced  array  of  guests  scattered  luxuriously  about  in  the 
cool  twilight  of  its  lofty  dining-room,  gazing  at  one  another 

70 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA  71 

across  the  snowy  waste  of  unoccupied  tables,  silently  con- 
gratulatory. 

Superfluous,  watchful,  pneumatically  moving  waiters 
hover  near,  supplying  every  want  before  it  is  expressed. 
The  temperature  is  perpetual  April.  The  ceiling  is  painted 
in  water  colors  to  counterfeit  a  summer  sky  across  which 
delicate  clouds  drift  and  do  not  vanish  as  those  of  nature  do 
to  our  regret. 

The  pleasing,  distant  roar  of  Broadway  is  transformed  in 
the  imagination  of  the  happy  guests  to  the  noise  of  a  waterfall 
filhng  the  woods  with  its  restful  sound.  At  every  strange 
footstep  the  guests  turn  an  anxious  car,  fearful  lest  their 
retreat  be  discovered  and  invaded  by  the  restless  pleasure- 
seekers  who  are  forever  hounding  nature  to  her  deepest  lairs. 

Thus  in  the  depopulated  caravansary  the  little  band  of 
connoisseurs  jealously  hide  themselves  during  the  heated 
season,  enjoying  to  the  uttermost  the  delights  of  mountain 
and  seashore  that  art  and  skill  have  gathered  and  served  to 
them. 

In  this  July  came  to  the  hotel  one  whose  card  that  she  sent 
to  the  clerk  for  her  name  to  be  registered  read  "Mme.  Heloise 
D'Arcy  Beaumont." 

Madame  Beaumont  was  a  guest  such  as  the  Hotel  Lotus 
loved.  She  possessed  the  fine  air  of  the  elite,  tempered  and 
sweetened  by  a  cordial  graciousness  that  made  the  hotel 
employes  her  slaves.  Bell-boys  fought  for  the  honor  of 
answering  her  ring;  the  clerks,  but  for  the  question  of  owner- 
ship, would  have  deeded  to  her  the  hotel  and  its  contents; 
the  other  guests  regarded  her  as  the  final  touch  of  feminine 
exclusiveness  and  beauty  that  rendered  the  entourage  per- 
fect. 

This  super-excellent  guest  rarely  left  the  hotel.  Her 
habits  were  consonant  with  the  customs  of  the  discriminating 
patrons  of  the  Hotel  Lotus.  To  enjoy  that  delectable 
hostelry  one  must  forego  the  city  as  though  it  were  leagues 
away.  By  night  a  brief  excursion  to  the  nearby  roofs  is  in 
order;  but  during  the  torrid  day  one  remains  in  the  um- 


72  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

brageous  fastnesses  of  the  Lotus  as  a  trout  hangs  poised  in 
the  pellucid  sanctuaries  of  his  favorite  pool. 

Though  alone  in  the  Hotel  Lotus,  Madame  Beaumont 
preserved  the  state  of  a  queen  whose  loneliness  was  of  position 
only.  She  breakfasted  at  ten,  a  cool,  sweet,  leisurely,  deli- 
cate being  who  glowed  softly  in  the  dimness  like  a  jasmine 
flower  in  the  dusk. 

But  at  dinner  was  Madame 's  glory  at  its  height.  She  wore 
a  gown  as  beautiful  and  immaterial  as  the  mist  from  an  un- 
seen cataract  in  a  mountain  gorge.  The  nomenclature  of 
this  gown  is  beyond  the  guess  of  the  scribe.  Always  pale-red 
roses  reposed  against  its  lace-garnished  front.  It  was  a 
gown  that  the  head-waiter  viewed  with  respect  and  met  at 
the  door.  You  thought  of  Paris  when  you  saw  it,  and  maybe 
of  mysterious  countesses,  and  certainly  of  Versailles  and 
rapiers  and  IMrs.  Fiske  and  rouge-et-noir.  There  was  an 
untraceable  rumor  in  the  Hotel  Lotus  that  Madame  was  s 
cosmopolite,  and  that  she  was  pulling  with  her  slender  white 
hands  certain  strings  between  the  nations  in  the  favor  of 
Russia.  Being  a  citizeness  of  the  world's  smoothest  roads  it 
was  small  wonder  that  she  was  quick  to  recognize  in  the 
refined  purlieus  of  the  Hotel  Lotus  the  most  desirable  spot  in 
America  for  a  restful  sojourn  during  the  heat  of  mid-summer. 

On  the  third  day  of  Madame  Beaumont's  residence  in  the 
hotel  a  young  man  entered  and  registered  himself  as  a  guest. 
His  clothing — to  speak  of  his  points  in  approved  order — was 
quietly  in  the  mode;  his  features  good  and  regular;  his  ex- 
pression that  of  a  poised  and  sophisticated  man  of  the  world. 
He  informed  the  clerk  that  he  would  remain  three  or  four 
days,  inquired  concerning  the  sailing  of  European  steamships, 
and  sank  into  the  blissful  inanition  of  the  nonpareil  hotel 
with  the  contented  air  of  a  traveler  in  his  favorite  inn. 

The  young  man — not  to  question  the  veracity  of  the  regis- 
ter— was  Harold  Farrington.  He  drifted  into  the  exclusive 
and  calm  current  of  life  in  the  Lotus  so  tactfully  and  silently 
that  not  a  ripple  alarmed  his  fellow-seekers  after  rest.  He 
ate  in  the  Lotus  and  of  its  patronym,  and  was  lulled  into  bliss- 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA  73 

ful  peace  with  the  other  fortunate  mariners.  In  one  day  he 
acquired  his  table  and  his  waiter  and  the  fear  lest  the  panting 
chasers  after  repose  that  kept  Broadway  warm  should  pounce 
upon  and  destroy  this  contiguous  but  covert  haven. 

After  dinner  on  the  next  day  after  the  arrival  of  Harold 
Farrington  Madame  Beaumont  dropped  her  handkerchief  in 
passing  out.  Mr.  Farrington  recovered  and  returned  it  with- 
out the  effusiveness  of  a  seeker  after  acquaintance. 

Perhaps  there  was  a  mystic  freemasonry  between  the  dis- 
criminating guests  of  the  Lotus.  Perhaps  they  were  drawn 
one  to  another  by  the  fact  of  their  common  good  fortune  in 
discovering  the  acme  of  summer  resorts  in  a  Broadway  hotel. 
Words  delicate  in  courtesy  and  tentative  in  departure  from 
formality  passed  between  the  two.  And,  as  if  in  the  ex- 
pedient atmosphere  of  a  real  summer  resort,  an  acquaintance 
grew,  flowered,  and  fructified  on  the  spot  as  does  the  mystic 
plant  of  the  conjuror.  For  a  few  moments  they  stood  on  a 
balcony  upon  which  the  corridor  ended,  and  tossed  the 
feathery  ball  of  conversation. 

"One  tires  of  the  old  resorts,"  said  Madame  Beaumont, 
with  a  faint  but  sweet  smile.  "What  is  the  use  to  fly  to  the 
mountains  or  the  seashore  to  escape  noise  and  dust  when  the 
very  people  that  make  both  follow  us  there?" 

"Even  on  the  ocean,"  remarked  Farrington,  sadly,  "the 
Philistines  be  upon  you.  The  most  exclusive  steamers  are 
getting  to  be  scarcely  more  than  ferry  boats.  Heaven  help 
us  when  the  summer  resorter  discovers  that  the  Lotus  is 
further  away  from  Broadway  than  Thousand  Islands  or 
Mackinac." 

"I  hope  our  secret  will  be  safe  for  a  week,  anyhow,"  said 
Madame,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  "I  do  not  know  where  I 
would  go  if  they  should  descend  upon  the  dear  Lotus.  I 
know  of  but  one  place  so  delightful  in  summer,  and  that  is  the 
castle  of  Count  Polinski,  in  the  Ural  Mountains." 

"I  hear  that  Baden-Baden  and  Cannes  are  almost  deserted 
this  season,"  said  Farrington.  "Year  by  year  the  old  resorts 
fall  in  disrepute.     Perhaps  many  others,  like  ourselves,  are 


74  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

seeking  out  the  quiet  nooks  that  are  overlooked  by  the 
majority." 

"I  promise  myself  three  days  more  of  this  delicious  rest," 
said  Madame  Beaumont.     "On  Monday  the  Cedric  sails." 

Harold  Farrington's  eyes  proclaimed  his  regret.  "I 
too  must  leave  on  Monday,"  he  said,  *'but  I  do  not  go 
abroad." 

Madame  Beaumont  shrugged  one  round  shoulder  in  a 
foreign  gesture. 

''One  cannot  hide  here  forever,  charming  though  it  may  be. 
The  chateau  has  been  in  preparation  for  me  longer  than  a 
month.  Those  house  parties  that  one  must  give — ^rv^hat  a 
nuisance!  But  I  shall  never  forget  my  week  in  the  Hotel 
Lotus." 

"Nor  shall  I,"  said  Farrington  in  a  low  voice,  "and  I  shall 
neyer  forgive  the  Cedric.'' 

On  Sunday  evening,  three  days  afterward,  the  two  sat  at  a 
little  table  on  the  same  balcony.  A  discreet  waiter  brought 
ices  and  small  glasses  of  claret  cup. 

Madame  Beaumont  wore  the  same  beautiful  evening  gown 
that  she  had  worn  each  day  at  dinner.  She  seemed  thought- 
ful. Near  her  hand  on  the  table  lay  a  small  chatelaine  purse. 
After  she  had  eaten  her  ice  she  opened  the  purse  and  took  out 
a  one-dollar  bill. 

"Mr.  Farrington,"  she  said,  with  the  smile  that  had  won 
the  Hotel  Lotus,  "I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I'm  going 
to  leave  before  breakfast  in  the  morning,  because  I've  got  to 
go  back  to  my  work.  I'm  behind  the  hosiery  counter  at 
Casey's  Mammoth  Store,  and  my  vacation's  up  at  eight 
^'clock  to-morrow.  That  paper  dollar  is  the  last  cent  I'll  see 
till  I  draw  my  eight  dollars  salary  next  Saturday  night. 
You're  a  real  gentleman,  and  you've  been  good  to  me,  and  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  before  I  went. 

"I've  been  saving  up  out  of  my  wages  for  a  year  just  for 
this  vacation.  I  wanted  to  spend  one  week  like  a  lady  if  I 
never  do  another  one.  I  wanted  to  get  up  when  I  please 
instead  of  having  to  crawl  out  at  seven  every  morning;  and 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA  75 

I  wanted  to  live  on  the  best  and  be  waited  on  and  ring  beUs 
for  things  just  hke  rich  folks  do.  Now  I've  done  it,  and  I've 
had  the  happiest  time  I  ever  expect  to  have  in  my  life.  I'm 
going  back  to  my  work  and  my  little  hall  bedroom  satisfied 
for  another  year.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it,  Mr.  Farring- 
ton,  because  I — I  thought  you  kind  of  liked  me,  and  I — I 
liked  you.  But,  oh,  I  couldn't  help  deceiving  you  up  till 
now,  for  it  was  all  just  like  a  fairy  tale  to  me.  So  I  talked 
about  Europe  and  the  things  I've  read  about  in  other  coun- 
tries, and  made  you  think  I  was  a  great  lady. 

"This  dress  I've  got  on — it's  the  only  one  I  have  that's  fit 
to  wear — I  bought  from  O'Dowd  &  Levinsky  on  the  instal- 
ment plan. 

"Seventy-five  dollars  is  the  price,  and  it  was  made  to 
measure.  I  paid  $10  down,  and  they're  to  collect  $1  a  week 
till  it's  paid  for.  That'll  be  about  all  I  have  to  say,  Mr. 
Farrington,  except  that  my  name  is  Mamie  Siviter  instead  of 
Madame  Beaumont,  and  I  thank  you  for  your  attentions. 
This  dollar  will  pay  the  instalment  due  on  the  dress  to- 
morrow.    I  guess  I'll  go  up  to  my  room  now." 

Harold  Farrington  listened  to  the  recital  of  the  Lotus's 
loveliest  guest  with  an  impassive  countenance.  WTien  she 
had  concluded  he  drew  a  small  book  like  a  checkbook  from 
his  coat  pocket.  He  wrote  upon  a  blank  form  in  this  with  a 
stub  of  pencil,  tore  out  the  leaf,  tossed  it  over  to  his  com- 
panion and  took  up  the  paper  dollar. 

"I've  got  to  go  to  work,  too,  in  the  morning,"  he  said, 
"and  I  might  as  well  begin  now.  There's  a  receipt  for  the 
dollar  instalment.  I've  been  a  collector  for  O'Dowd  & 
Levinsky  for  three  years.  Funny,  ain't  it,  that  you  and  me 
both  had  the  same  idea  about  spending  our  vacation?  I've 
always  wanted  to  put  up  at  a  swell  hotel,  and  I  saved  up  out 
of  my  twenty  per,  and  did  it.  Say,  Mame,  how  about  a  trip 
to  Coney  Saturday  night  on  the  boat — what?" 

The  face  of  the  pseudo  Madame  Heloise  D'Arcy  Beaumont 
beamed. 

"Oh,  you  bet  I'll  go,  Mr.  Farrington.     The  store  closes  at 


76  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

twelve  on  Saturdays.  I  guess  Coney '11  be  all  right  even  if 
we  did  spend  a  week  with  the  swells." 

Below  the  balcony  the  sweltering  city  growled  and  buzzed 
in  the  July  night.  Inside  the  Hotel  Lotus  the  tempered, 
cool  shadows  reigned,  and  the  solicitous  waiter  single-footed 
near  the  low  windows,  ready  at  a  nod  to  serve  Madame  and 
her  escort. 

At  the  door  of  the  elevator  Farrington  took  his  leave,  and 
Madame  Beaumont  made  her  last  ascent.  But  before  they 
reached  the  noiseless  cage  he  said:  "Just  forget  that  'Harold 
Farrington,*  will  you? — McManus  is  the  name — James  Mc- 
Manus.     Some  call  me  Jimmy." 

"Good-night,  Jimmy,"  said  Madame, 


THE  ROADS  WE  TAKE 

From  Whirligigs.  First  published  in  The  Worlds  August  7,  1904. 
Tidball's  summary  (page  80),  a  Western  version  of, 

*'The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars. 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings," 

is  a  direct  denial  of  the  fatalism  found  in  Roads  of  Destiny  (page  16). 
When  Channing  Pollock's  melodrama,  called  also  Roads  of  Destiny 
and  suggested  by  O.  Henry's  story,  was  put  upon  the  stage  in  New 
York,  November  27,  1918,  it  was  explained  that  the  original  stark 
fatalism  of  O.  Henry's  story  had  been  tempered  with  more  modern 
and  Western  thought:  *'Fate,  inexorable  as  it  is,  is  in  some  measure, 
at  least,  the  result  of  character.  The  power  which  decrees  our  ends 
is  within  ourselves — the  things  we  think  and  are."  This  is  precisely 
O.  Henry's  doctrme  in  The  Roads  We  Take.  There  is  a  striking 
adumbration  of  this  story  in  a  passage  from  Colonel  Roosevelt's 
Winning  of  the  West,  volume  I,  chapter  5.  He  is  speaking  of  the 
backwoodsmen  of  the  AUeghanies:  "All  qualities,  good  and  bad, 
are  intensified  and  accentuated  in  the  life  of  the  wilderness.  The 
man  who  in  civilization  is  merely  sullen  and  bad-tempered  becomes  a 
murderous,  treacherous  ruffian  when  transplanted  to  the  wilds; while, 
on  the  other  hand,  his  cheery,  quiet  neighbor  develops  into  a  hero, 
ready  uncomplainingly  to  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend.  One  who 
in  an  eastern  city  is  merely  a  backbiter  and  slanderer,  in  the  western 
woods  lies  in  wait  for  his  foe  with  a  rifle;  sharp  practice  in  the  East 
becomes  highway  robbery  in  the  West."  Note  in  the  next  to  the  last 
paragraph  of  the  story  the  same  illuminating  use  of  repetition  that 
formed  a  characteristic  of  Roads  of  Destiny. 

Twenty  miles  west  of  Tucson  the  "Sunset  Express" 
stopped  at  a  tank  to  take  on  water.  Besides  the  aqueous 
addition  the  engine  of  that  famous  flyer  acquired  some  other 
things  that  were  not  good  for  it. 

77 


78  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

While  the  fireman  was  lowering  the  feeding  hose,  Bob 
Tidball,  "Shark"  Dodson,  and  a  quarter-bred  Creek  Indian 
called  John  Big  Dog  climbed  on  the  engine  and  showed  the 
engineer  three  round  orifices  in  pieces  of  ordnance  that  they 
carried.  These  orifices  so  impressed  the  engineer  with  their 
possibilities  that  he  raised  both  hands  in  a  gesture  such  as 
accompanies  the  ejaculation  "Do  tell!" 

At  the  crisp  command  of  Shark  Dodson,  who  was  leader 
of  the  attacking  force,  the  engineer  descended  to  the  ground 
and  uncoupled  the  engine  and  tender.  Then  John  Big  Dog, 
perched  upon  the  coal,  sportively  held  two  guns  upon  the 
engine  driver  and  the  fireman,  and  suggested  that  they  run 
the  engine  fifty  yards  away  and  there  await  further  orders. 

Shark  Dodson  and  Bob  Tidball,  scorning  to  put  such  low- 
grade  ore  as  the  passengers  through  the  mill,  struck  out  for 
the  rich  pocket  of  the  express  car.  They  found  the  messenger 
serene  in  the  belief  that  the  "Sunset  Express"  was  taking  on 
nothing  more  stimulating  and  dangerous  than  aqua  pura. 
While  Bob  was  knocking  this  idea  out  of  his  head  with  the 
butt-end  of  his  six-shooter  Shark  Dodson  was  already  dosing 
the  express-car  safe  with  dynamite. 

The  safe  exploded  to  the  tune  of  $30,000,  all  gold  and 
currency.  The  passengers  thrust  their  heads  casually  out  of 
the  windows  to  look  for  the  thunder-cloud.  The  conductor 
jerked  at  the  bell-rope,  which  sagged  down  loose  and  un- 
resisting, at  his  tug.  Shark  Dodson  and  Bob  Tidball,  with 
their  booty  in  a  stout  canvas  bag,  tumbled  out  of  the  express 
car  and  ran  awkwardly  in  their  high-heeled  boots  to  the 
engine. 

The  engineer,  sullenly  angry  but  wise,  ran  the  engine, 
according  to  orders,  rapidly  away  from  the  inert  train.  But 
before  this  was  accomplished  the  express  messenger,  re- 
covered from  Bob  Tidball's  persuader  to  neutrality,  jumped 
out  of  his  car  with  a  Winchester  rifle  and  took  a  trick  in  the 
game.  IVir.  John  Big  Dog,  sitting  on  the  coal  tender,  un- 
wittingly made  a  wrong  lead  by  giving  an  imitation  of  a  tar- 
get, and  the  messenger  trumped  him.     With  a  ball  exactly 


THE  ROADS  WE  TAKE  79 

between  his  shoulder  blades  the  Creek  chevalier  of  industry- 
rolled  off  to  the  ground,  thus  increasing  the  share  of  his  com- 
rades in  the  loot  by  one  sixth  each. 

Two  miles  from  the  tank  the  engineer  was  ordered  to  stop. 

The  robbers  waved  a  defiant  adieu  and  plunged  down  the 
steep  slope  into  the  thick  woods  that  lined  the  track.  Five 
minutes  of  crashing  through  a  thicket  of  chaparral  brought 
them  to  open  woods,  where  three  horses  were  tied  to  low- 
hanging  branches.  One  was  waiting  for  John  Big  Dog,  who 
would  never  ride  by  night  or  day  again.  This  animal  the 
robbers  divested  of  saddle  and  bridle  and  set  free.  They 
mounted  the  other  two  with  the  bag  across  one  pommel,  and 
rode  fast  and  with  discretion  through  the  forest  and  up  a 
primeval,  lonely  gorge.  Here  the  animal  that  bore  Bob 
Tidball  sUpped  on  a  mossy  boulder  and  broke  a  foreleg. 
They  shot  him  through  the  head  at  once  and  sat  down  to 
hold  a  council  of  flight.  Made  secure  for  the  present  by  the 
tortuous  trail  they  had  traveled,  the  question  of  time  was  no 
longer  so  big.  Many  miles  and  hours  lay  between  them  and 
the  spryest  posse  that  could  follow.  Shark  Dodson's  horse, 
with  trailing  rope  and  dropped  bridle,  panted  and  cropped 
thankfully  of  the  grass  along  the  stream  in  the  gorge.  Bob 
Tidball  opened  the  sack,  drew  out  double  handfuls  of  the 
neat  packages  of  currency  and  the  one  sack  of  gold,  and 
chuclded  with  the  glee  of  a  child. 

"Say,  you  old  double-decked  pirate,"  he  called  joyfully 
to  Dodson,  "you  said  we  could  do  it— you  got  a  head  for 
financing  that  knocks  the  horns  off  of  anything  in  Arizona." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  a  hoss  for  you,  Bob?  We 
ain't  got  long  to  wait  here.  They'll  be  on  our  trail  before 
daylight  in  the  mornin'." 

"Oh,  I  guess  that  cayuse  of  yourn'U  carry  double  for  a 
while,"  answered  the  sanguine  Bob.  "We'll  annex  the  first 
animal  we  come  across.  By  jingoes,  we  made  a  haul,  didn't 
we?  Accordin'  to  the  marks  on  this  money  there's  $30,000 — 
$15,000  apiece!" 

"It's  short  of  what  I  expected,"  said  Shark  Dodson.  kick- 


80  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

ing  softly  at  the  packages  with  the  toe  of  his  boot.     And  then 
he  looked  pensively  at  the  wet  sides  of  his  tired  horse. 

'*01d  Bolivar's  mighty  nigh  played  out,"  he  said,  slowly. 
*'I  wish  that  sorrel  of  yours  hadn't  got  hurt." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Bob,  heartily,  "but  it  can't  be  helped. 
Bolivar's  got  plenty  of  bottom — he'll  get  us  both  far  enough 
to  get  fresh  mounts.  Dang  it,  Shark,  I  can't  help  thinkin' 
how  funny  it  is  that  an  Easterner  like  you  can  come  out 
here  and  give  us  Western  fellows  cards  and  spades  in  the 
desperado  business.  What  part  of  the  East  was  you  from, 
anyway.?" 

New  York  State,"  said  Shark  Dodson,  sitting  down  on  a 
boulder  and  chewing  a  twig.  "I  was  born  on  a  farm  in 
Ulster  County.  I  ran  aw^ay  from  home  when  I  was  seven- 
teen. It  was  an  accident  my  comin'  West.  I  was  walkin' 
along  the  road  with  my  clothes  in  a  bundle,  makin'  for  New 
York  City.  I  had  an  idea  of  goin'  there  and  makin'  lots  of 
money.  I  always  felt  like  I  could  do  it.  I  came  to  a  place 
one  evenin'  where  the  road  forked  and  I  didn't  know  which 
fork  to  take.  I  studied  about  it  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  I 
took  the  left-hand.  That  night  I  run  into  the  camp  of  a 
Wild  West  show  that  was  travelin'  among  the  little  towns, 
and  I  went  West  with  it.  I've  often  wondered  if  I  wouldn't 
have  turned  out  different  if  I'd  took  the  other  road." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  you'd  have  ended  up  about  the  same,"  said 
Bob  Tidball,  cheerfully  philosophical.  "It  ain't  the  roads 
we  take;  it's  what's  inside  of  us  that  makes  us  turn  out  the 
way  we  do." 

Shark  Dodson  got  up  and  leaned  against  a  tree. 

"I'd  a  good  deal  rather  that  sorrel  of  yourn  hadn't  hurt 
himself,  Bob,"  he  said  again,  almost  pathetically. 

"Same  here,"  agreed  Bob;  "he  was  sure  a  first-rate  kind  of 
a  crowbait.  But  Bolivar,  he'll  pull  us  through  all  right. 
Reckon  we'd  better  be  movin'  on,  hadn't  we.  Shark.?  I'll 
bag  this  boodle  ag'in  and  we'll  hit  the  trail  for  higher 
timber." 

Bob  Tidball  replaced  the  spoil  in  the  bag  and  tied  the 


THE  ROADS  WE  TAKE  81 

mouth  of  it  tightly  with  a  cord.  When  he  looked  up  the 
most  prominent  object  that  he  saw  was  the  muzzle  of  Shark 
Dodson's  .45  held  upon  him  without  a  waver. 

"Stop  your  funnin',"  said  Bob,  with  a  grin.  "We  got  to 
be  hittin'  the  breeze." 

"Set  still,"  said  Shark.  "You  ain't  goin'  to  hit  no  breeze, 
Bob.  I  hate  to  tell  you,  but  there  ain't  any  chance  for  but 
one  of  us.     BoUvar,  he's  plenty  tired,  and  he  can't  carry 

double." 

"We  been  pards,  me  and  you.  Shark  Dodson,  for  three 
year,"  Bob  said  quietly.  "We've  risked  our  lives  together 
time  and  again.  I've  always  give  you  a  square  deal,  and  I 
thought  you  was  a  man,  I've  heard  some  queer  stories  about 
you  shootin'  one  or  two  men  in  a  peculiar  way,  but  I  never 
believed  'em.  Now  if  you're  just  havin'  a  little  fun  with  me, 
Shark,  put  your  gun  up,  and  we'll  get  on  Bolivar  and  vamose. 
If  you  mean  to  shoot— shoot,  you  blackhearted  son  of  a 
tarantula!" 

Shark  Dodson's  face  bore  a  deeply  sorrowful  look. 

"You  don't  know  how  bad  I  feel,"  he  sighed,  "about  that 
sorrel  of  yourn  breakin'  his  leg,  Bob." 

The  expression  on  Dodson's  face  changed  in  an  instant  to 
one  of  cold  ferocity  mingled  with  inexorable  cupidity.  The 
soul  of  the  man  showed  itself  for  a  moment  like  an  evil  face  in 
the  window  of  a  reputable  house. 

Truly  Bob  Tidball  was  never  to  "hit  the  breeze"  again. 
The  deadly  .45  of  the  false  friend  cracked  and  filled  the  gorge 
with  a  roar  that  the  walls  hurled  back  with  indignant  echoes. 
And  Bolivar,  unconscious  accomplice,  swiftly  bore  away  the 
last  of  the  holders-up  of  the  "Sunset  Express,"  not  put  to  the 
stress  of  "carrying  double." 

But  as  Shark  Dodson  galloped  away  the  woods  seemed 
to  fade  from  his  view;  the  revolver  in  his  right  hand  turned 
to  the  curved  arm  of  a  mahogany  chair;  his  saddle  was 
strangely  upholstered,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  his 
feet,  not  in  stirrups,  but  resting  quietly  on  the  edge  of  a 
quartered-oak  desk. 


82  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

I  am  telling  you  that  Dodson,  of  the  firm  of  Dodson  & 
Decker,  Wall  Street  brokers,  opened  his  eyes.  Peabody,  the 
confidential  clerk,  was  standing  by  his  chair,  hesitating  to 
speak.  There  was  a  confused  hum  of  wheels  below,  and  the 
sedative  buzz  of  an  electric  fan. 

"Ahem!  Peabody,"  said  Dodson,  blinking.  "I  must 
have  fallen  asleep.  I  had  a  most  remarkable  dream.  What 
is  it,  Peabody?" 

"Mr.  WilHams,  sir,  of  Tracy  &  Williams,  is  outside.  He 
has  come  to  settle  his  deal  in  X.  Y.  Z.  The  market  caught 
him  short,  sir,  if  you  remember." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  What  is  X.  Y.  Z.  quoted  at  to-day, 
Peabody.?" 

"One  eighty-five,  sir." 

"Then  that's  his  price." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Peabody,  rather  nervously,  "for  speak- 
ing of  it,  but  I've  been  talking  to  Williams.  He's  an  old 
friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Dodson,  and  you  practically  have  a 
corner  in  X.  Y.  Z.  I  thought  you  might — that  is,  I  thought 
you  might  not  remember  that  he  sold  you  the  stock  at  98. 
If  he  settles  at  the  market  price  it  will  take  every  cent  he  has 
in  the  world  and  his  home  too  to  deliver  the  shares." 

The  expression  on  Dodson's  face  changed  in  an  instant  to 
one  of  cold  ferocity  mingled  with  inexorable  cupidity.  The 
soul  of  the  man  show^ed  itself  for  a  moment  like  an  evil  face 
in  the  window  of  a  reputable  house. 

"He  will  settle  at  one  eighty-five,"  said  Dodson.  " Bolivaj 
cannot  carry  double." 


THE  FURNISHED  ROOM 

From  The  Four  Million.  First  published  in  The  World,  August 
14,  1904.  To  my  mind  this  is  O.  Henry's  greatest  story,  though, 
being  without  humor,  it  can  hardly  be  called  his  most  characteris- 
tic story.  In  unity,  convergence  of  parts,  purity  of  style,  structural 
craftsmanship,  saturation  with  the  main  idea,  it  stands  alone.  It 
is  Poe  in  all  his  "totality  of  effect,"  Hawthorne  in  The  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables,  Shakespeare  when  he  set  the  weird  sisters  upon  the 
heath  to  croak  the  curtained  doom  of  Macbeth.  Saintsbury  in  The 
English  Novel,  page  122,  says  of  Smollett's  Sir  Launcelot  Greaves; 
*T  have  always  thought  that  the  opening  passage  more  than  entitles 
the  book  to  an  honorable  place  in  the  history  of  English  fiction.  I  do 
not  know  where  to  look,  before  it,  for  such  an  interior — such  a  com- 
plete Dutch  picture  of  room  and  furniture  and  accessories  gen- 
erally." Against  Smollett's  picture  I  should  pit  confidently 
O.  Henry's  paragraph  beginning,  "One  by  one,  as  the  characters 
of  a  cryptograph  become  explicit, "  etc.  Indeed  this  room,  this  inte- 
rior, is  one  of  the  characters  in  the  story,  as  is  Dulcie's  room  in  An 
Unfinished  Story. 

Restless,  shifting,  fugacious  as  time  itself  is  a  certain  vast 
bulk  of  the  population  of  the  red  brick  district  of  the  lower 
West  Side.  Homeless,  they  have  a  hundred  homes.  They 
flit  from  furnished  room  to  furnished  room,  transients  forever 
— transients  in  abode,  transients  in  heart  and  mind.  They 
sing  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  in  ragtime;  they  carry  their  lares 
et  senates  in  a  bandbox;  their  vine  is  entwined  about  a  picture 
hat;  a  rubber  plant  is  their  fig  tree. 

Hence  the  houses  of  this  district,  having  had  a  thousand 
dwellers,  should  have  a  thousand  tales  to  tell,  mostly  dull 
ones,  no  doubt;  but  it  would  be  strange  if  there  could  not  be 
found  a  ghost  or  two  in  the  wake  of  all  these  vagrant  guests. 

One  evening  after  dark  a  young  man  prowled  among  these 

83 


84  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

crumbling  red  mansions,  ringing  their  bells.  At  the  twelfth 
he  rested  his  lean  hand-baggage  upon  the  step  and  wiped  the 
dust  from  his  hat-band  and  forehead.  The  bell  sounded 
faint  and  far  away  in  some  remote,  hollow  depths. 

To  the  door  of  this,  the  twelfth  house  whose  bell  he  had 
rung,  came  a  housekeeper  who  made  him  think  of  an  un- 
wholesome, surfeited  worm  that  had  eaten  its  nut  to  a  hollow 
shell  and  now  sought  to  fill  the  vacancy  with  edible  lodgers. 

He  asked  if  there  was  a  room  to  let. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  housekeeper.  Her  voice  came  from 
her  throat;  her  throat  seemed  lined  with  fur.  "I  have  the 
third  floor  back,  vacant  since  a  week  back.  Should  you  wish 
to  look  at  it.?^" 

The  young  man  followed  her  up  the  stairs.  A  faint  light 
from  no  particular  source  mitigated  the  shadows  of  the  halls. 
They  trod  noiselessly  upon  a  stair  carpet  that  its  own  loom 
would  have  forsworn.  It  seemed  to  have  become  vegetable; 
to  have  degenerated  in  that  rank,  sunless  air  to  lush  lichen  or 
spreading  moss  that  grew  in  patches  to  the  stair-case  and  was 
viscid  under  the  foot  like  organic  matter.  At  each  turn  of 
the  stairs  were  vacant  niches  in  the  wall.  Perhaps  plants 
had  once  been  set  within  them.  If  so  they  had  died  in  that 
foul  and  tainted  air.  It  may  be  that  statues  of  the  saints  had 
stood  there,  but  it  was  not  difficult  to  conceive  that  imps  and 
devils  had  dragged  them  forth  in  the  darkness  and  down  to 
the  unholy  depths  of  some  furnished  pit  below. 

"This  is  the  room,"  said  the  housekeeper,  from  her  furry 
throat.  "It's  a  nice  room.  It  ain't  often  vacant.  I  had 
some  most  elegant  people  in  it  last  summer — no  trouble  at 
all,  and  paid  in  advance  to  the  minute.  The  w^ater's  at  the 
end  of  the  hall.  Sprowls  and  Mooney  kept  it  three  months. 
They  done  a  vaudeville  sketch.  Miss  B'retta  Sprowls — 
you  may  have  heard  of  her — Oh,  that  was  just  the  stage 
names — right  there  over  the  dresser  is  where  the  marriage 
certificate  hung,  framed.  The  gas  is  here,  and  you  see  there 
is  plenty  of  closet  room.  It's  a  room  everybody  likes.  It 
never  stays  idle  long." 


THE  FURNISHED  ROOM  85 

"Do  you  have  many  theatrical  people  rooming  here?" 
asked  the  young  man. 

"They  comes  and  goes.  A  good  proportion  of  my  lodgers 
is  connected  with  the  theatres.  Yes,  sir,  this  is  the  theatrical 
district.  Actor  people  never  stays  long  anywhere.  I  get  my 
share.     Yes,  they  comes  and  they  goes." 

He  engaged  the  room,  paying  for  a  week  in  advance. 
He  was  tired,  he  said,  and  would  take  possession  at  once. 
He  counted  out  the  money.  The  room  had  been  made 
ready,  she  said,  even  to  towels  and  water.  As  the  house- 
keeper moved  away  he  put,  for  the  thousandth  time,  the 
question  that  he  carried  at  the  end  of  his  tongue. 

"A  young  girl — Miss  Vashner — Miss  Eloise  Vashner — do 
you  remember  such  a  one  among  your  lodgers?  She  would 
be  singing  on  the  stage,  most  likely.  A  fair  girl,  of  medium 
height  and  slender,  with  reddish,  gold  hau*  and  a  dark  mole 
near  her  left  eyebrow." 

"No,  I  don't  remember  the  name.  Them  stage  people 
has  names  they  change  as  often  as  then-  rooms.  They  comes 
and  they  goes.     No,  I  don't  call  that  one  to  mind." 

No.  Always  no.  Five  months  of  ceaseless  interrogation 
and  the  mevitable  negative.  So  much  time  spent  by  day  in 
questioning  managers,  agents,  schools,  and  choruses;  by  night 
among  the  audiences  of  theatres  from  all-star  casts  down  to 
music  halls  so  low  that  he  dreaded  to  find  what  he  most 
hoped  for.  He  who  had  loved  her  best  had  tried  to  find  her. 
He  was  sure  that  since  her  disappearance  from  home  this 
great,  water-girt  city  held  her  somewhere,  but  it  was  like  a 
monstrous  quicksand,  shifting  its  particles  constantly,  with 
no  foundation,  its  upper  granules  of  to-day  buried  to-morrow 
in  ooze  and  slime. 

The  furnished  room  received  its  latest  guest  with  a  first 
glow  of  pseudo-hospitality,  a  hectic,  haggard,  perfunctory 
welcome  like  the  specious  smile  of  a  demirep.  The  sophisti- 
cal comfort  came  in  reflected  gleams  from  the  decayed  furni- 
ture, the  ragged  brocade  upholstery  of  a  couch  and  two  chairs, 
a  foot-wide  cheap  pier  glass  between  the  two  windows,  from 


86  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

one  or  two  gilt  picture  frames  and  a  brass  bedstead  in  a 
corner. 

The  guest  reclined,  inert,  upon  a  chair,  while  the  room, 
confused  in  speech  as  though  it  were  an  apartment  in  Babel, 
tried  to  discourse  to  him  of  its  divers  tenantry. 

A  polychromatic  rug  like  some  brilliant-flowered  rectangu- 
lar, tropical  islet  lay  surrounded  by  a  billowy  sea  of  soiled 
matting.  Upon  the  gay-papered  wall  were  those  pictures 
that  pursue  the  homeless  one  from  house  to  house — The 
Huguenot  Lovers,  The  First  Quarrel,  The  Wedding  Break- 
fast, Psyche  at  the  Fountain.  The  mantel's  chastely  severe 
outline  was  ingloriously  veiled  behind  some  pert  drapery 
dra^Ti  rakishly  askew  like  the  sashes  of  the  Amazonian 
ballet.  Upon  it  was  some  desolate  flotsam  cast  aside  by  the 
room's  marooned  when  a  lucky  sail  had  borne  them  to  a  fresh 
port — a  trifling  vase  or  two,  pictures  of  actresses,  a  medicine 
bottle,  some  stray  cards  out  of  a  deck. 

One  by  one,  as  the  characters  of  a  cryptograph  become 
explicit,  the  httle  signs  left  by  the  furnished  room's  procession 
of  guests  developed  a  significance.     The  threadbare  space  in 
the  rug  in  front  of  the  dresser  told  that  lovely  woman  had 
marched  in  the  throng.     The  tiny  finger  prints  on  the  wall 
spoke  of  little  prisoners  trying  to  feel  their  way  to  sun  and 
air.     A  splattered  stain,  raying  like  the  shadow  of  a  bursting 
bomb,  witnessed  where  a  hurled  glass  or  bottle  had  splintered 
with  its  contents  against  the  wall.     Across  the  pier  glass  had 
been  scrawled  with  a  diamond  in  staggering  letters  the  name 
"Marie."     It  seemed  that  the  succession  of  dwellers  in  the 
furnished  room  had  turned  in  fury — perhaps  tempted  be- 
yond  forebearance   by    its    garish    coldness — and   wreaked 
upon   it   their   passions.     The  furniture   was   chipped   and 
bruised;  the  couch,  distorted  by  bursting  springs,  seemed  a 
horrible  monster  that  had  been  slain  during  the  stress  of  some 
grotesque   convulsion.     Some   more   potent   upheaval   had 
cloven  a  great  slice  from  the  marble  mantel.     Each  plank  in 
the  floor  owned  its  particular  cant  and  shriek  as  from  a  sepa- 
rate and  individual  agony.    It  seemed  incredible  that  all  this 


THE  FURNISHED  ROOM  87 

malice  and  injury  had  been  wrought  upon  the  room  by  those 
who  had  called  it  for  a  time  their  home;  and  yet  it  may  have 
been  the  cheated  home  instinct  surviving  blindly,  the  resent- 
ful rage  at  false  household  gods  that  had  kindled  their  wrath. 
A  hut  that  is  our  own  we  can  sweep  and  adorn  and  cherish. 

The  young  tenant  in  the  chair  allowed  these  thoughts  to 
file,  soft-shod,  through  his  mind,  while  there  drifted  into  the 
room  furnished  sounds  and  furnished  scents.  He  heard  in 
one  room  a  tittering  and  incontinent,  slack  laughter;  in  others 
the  monologue  of  a  scold,  the  rattling  of  dice,  a  lullaby,  and 
one  crymg  dully;  above  him  a  banjo  tinkled  with  spirit. 
Doors  banged  somewhere;  the  elevated  trains  roared  inter- 
mittently; a  cat  yowled  miserably  upon  a  back  fence.  And 
he  breathed  the  breath  of  the  house— a  dank  savor  rather 
than  a  smell— a  cold,  musty  effluvium  as  from  underground 
vaults  mingled  with  the  reeking  exhalations  of  linoleum  and 
mildewed  and  rotten  woodwork. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  he  rested  there,  the  room  was  filled  with 
the  strong,  sweet  odor  of  mignonette.  It  came  as  upon  a 
single  buffet  of  wind  with  such  sureness  and  fragrance  and 
emphasis  that  it  almost  seemed  a  living  visitant.  And  the 
man  cried  aloud:  *'What,  dear?"  as  if  he  had  been  called, 
and  sprang  up  and  faced  about.  The  rich  odor  clung  to  him 
and  wrapped  him  around.  He  reached  out  his  arms  for  it, 
all  his  senses  for  the  time  confused  and  commingled.  How 
could  one  be  peremptorily  called  by  an  odor?  Surely  it 
must  have  been  a  sound.  But,  was  it  not  the  sound  that  had 
touched,  that  had  caressed  him? 

"She  has  been  in  this  room,"  he  cried,  and  he  sprang  to 
wrest  from  it  a  token,  for  he  knew  he  would  recognize  the 
smallest  thing  that  had  belonged  to  her  or  that  she  had 
touched.  This  envelopmg  scent  of  mignonette,  the  odor 
that  she  had  loved  and  made  her  own — ^whence  came  it? 

The  room  had  been  but  carelessly  set  in  order.  Scattered 
upon  the  flimsy  dresser  scarf  were  half  a  dozen  hairpins — 
those  discreet,  indistinguishable  friends  of  womankmd, 
feminine  of  gender,  infinite  of  mood,  and  uncommunicative  of 


88  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

tense.  These  he  ignored,  conscious  of  their  triumphant  lack 
of  identity.  Ransacking  the  drawers  of  the  dresser  he  came 
upon  a  discarded,  tiny,  ragged  handkerchief.  He  pressed 
it  to  his  face.  It  was  racy  and  insolent  with  heliotrope;  he 
hurled  it  to  the  floor.  In  another  drawer  he  found  odd  but- 
tons, a  theatre  programme,  a  pawnbroker's  card,  two  lost 
marshmallows,  a  book  on  the  divination  of  dreams.  In 
the  last  was  a  woman's  black  satin  hair  bow,  which  halted 
him,  poised  between  ice  and  fire.  But  the  black  satin  hair 
bow  also  is  femininity's  demure,  impersonal,  common  orna- 
ment and  tells  no  tales. 

And  then  he  traversed  the  room  like  a  hound  on  the  scent, 
skimming  the  walls,  considering  the  corners  of  the  bulging 
matting  on  his  hands  and  knees,  rummaging  mantel  and 
tables,  the  curtains  and  hangings,  the  drunken  cabinet  in  the 
corner,  for  a  visible  sign,  unable  to  perceive  that  she  was 
there  beside,  around,  against,  within,  above  him,  clinging  to 
him,  wooing  him,  calling  him  so  poignantly  through  the 
finer  senses  that  even  his  grosser  ones  became  cognizant  of 
the  call.  Once  again  he  answered  loudly:  "Yes,  dear!"  and 
turned,  wild-eyed,  to  gaze  on  vacancy,  for  he  could  not  yet 
discern  form  and  color  and  love  and  outstretched  arms  in 
the  odor  of  mignonette.  Oh,  God,  whence  that  odor,  and 
since  when  have  odors  had  a  voice  to  call.^^    Thus  he  groped. 

He  burrowed  in  crevices  and  corners,  and  found  corks  and 
cigarettes.  These  he  passed  in  passive  contempt.  But  once 
he  found  in  a  fold  of  the  matting  a  half -smoked  cigar,  and 
this  he  ground  beneath  his  heel  with  a  green  and  trenchant 
oath.  He  sifted  the  room  from  end  to  end.  He  found 
dreary  and  ignoble  small  records  of  many  a  peripatetic  ten- 
ant; but  of  her  whom  he  sought,  and  who  may  have  lodged 
there,  and  whose  spirit  seemed  to  hover  there,  he  found  no 
trace. 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  housekeeper. 

He  ran  from  the  haunted  room  downstairs  and  to  a  dooi 
that  showed  a  crack  of  light.  She  came  out  to  his  knock. 
He  smothered  his  excitement  as  best  he  could. 


THE  FURNISHED  ROOM  89 

"Will  you  tell  me,  madam,"  he  besought  her,  "who  oc- 
cupied the  room  I  have  before  I  came?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  can  tell  you  again.  'Twas  Sprowls  and 
Mooney,  as  I  said.  Miss  B'retta  Sprowls  it  was  in  the 
theatres,  but  Missis  Mooney  she  was.  My  house  is  well 
known  for  respectability.  The  marriage  certificate  hung, 
framed,  on  a  nail  over " 

"What  kind  of  a  lady  was  Miss  Sprowls — in  looks,  I 
mean?" 

"WTiy,  black-haired,  sir,  short,  and  stout,  with  a  comical 
face.     They  left  a  week  ago  Tuesday." 

"And  before  they  occupied  it?" 

"Why,  there  was  a  single  gentleman  connected  with  the 
draying  business.  He  left  owing  me  a  week.  Before  him 
was  Missis  Crowder  and  her  two  children,  that  stayed  four 
months;  and  back  of  them  was  old  Mr.  Doyle,  whose  sons 
paid  for  him.  He  kept  the  room  six  months.  That  goes 
back  a  year,  sir,  and  further  I  do  not  remember." 

He  thanked  her  and  crept  back  to  his  room.  The  room  was 
dead.  The  essence  that  had  vivified  it  was  gone.  The  per- 
fume of  mignonette  had  departed.  In  its  place  was  the  old, 
stale  odor  of  mouldy  house  furniture,  of  atmosphere  in  stor- 
age. 

The  ebbing  of  his  hope  drained  his  faith.  He  sat  staring 
at  the  yellow,  singing  gaslight.  Soon  he  walked  to  the  bed 
and  began  to  tear  the  sheets  into  strips.  With  the  blade  of 
his  knife  he  drove  them  tightly  into  every  crevice  around 
windows  and  door.  When  all  was  snug  and  taut  he  turned 
out  the  light,  turned  the  gas  full  on  again,  and  laid  himself 
gratefully  upon  the  bed. 


It  was  Mrs.  McCool's  night  to  go  with  the  can  for  beer. 
So  she  fetched  it  and  sat  with  Mrs.  Purdy  in  one  of  those  sub- 
terranean retreats  where  house-keepers  foregather  and  the 
worm  dieth  seldom. 

"I  rented  out  my  third  floor,  back,  this  evening,"  said  Mrs. 


90  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Purdy,  across  a  fine  circle  of  foam.  *'A  young  man  took  it 
He  went  up  to  bed  two  hours  ago.'* 

*'Now,  did  ye,  Mrs.  Purdy,  ma'am.^"  said  Mrs.  McCool, 
with  intense  admiration.  "You  do  be  a  wonder  for  rentin' 
rooms  of  that  kind.  And  did  ye  tell  him,  then.?"  she  con- 
cluded in  a  husky  whisper  laden  with  mystery. 

"Rooms,"  said  Mrs.  Purdy,  in  her  furriest  tones,  "are 
furnished  for  to  rent.     I  did  not  tell  him,  Mrs.  McCool." 

"  'Tis  right  ye  are,  ma'am;  'tis  by  renting  rooms  we  kape 
alive.  Ye  have  the  rale  sense  for  business,  ma'am.  There 
be  many  people  will  rayjict  the  rentin'  of  a  room  if  they  be 
tould  a  suicide  has  been  after  dyin'  in  the  bed  of  it." 

"As  you  say,  we  has  our  living  to  be  making,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Purdy. 

"Yis,  ma'am;  'tis  true.  'Tis  just  one  wake  ago  this  day 
I  helped  ye  lay  out  the  third  floor,  back.  A  pretty  slip  of  a 
colleen  she  was  to  be  killin'  herself  wid  the  gas — a  swate  little 
face  she  had,  Mrs.  Purdy,  ma'am." 

"She'd  a-been  called  handsome,  as  you  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Purdy,  assenting  but  critical,  "but  for  that  mole  she  had  a- 
growin'  by  her  left  eyebrow.  Do  fill  up  your  glass  again, 
Mrs.  McCool." 


MAKES  THE  WHOLE  WORLD  KIN 

From  Sixes  and  Sevens.  First  published  in  The  World,  September 
25,  1904.  Drugs  and  drug-store  experiences  enter  into  many  of 
O.  Henry's  stories.  As  a  boy  he  was  a  drug  clerk  in  Greensboro, 
North  Carolina,  and  later  in  Austin,  Texas,  and  Columbus,  Ohio. 
At  a  crisis  in  his  career  he  owed  freedom  and  probably  life  itself  to  his 
having  been  a  registered  pharmacist  in  his  native  town:  see 
0.  Henry  Biography,  pages  147-148.  It  should  be  remembered,  too, 
that  O.  Henry  found  his  now  famous  pen-name  in  the  United  States 
Dispensatory,  the  daily  companion  of  every  American  drug  clerk. 
O.  Henry  is  the  abbreviated  name,  just  as  it  appears  in  the  Dis- 
pensatory, of  the  celebrated  French  pharmacist,  Etienne-Ossian 
Henry:  see  The  Nation,  New  York,  May  11,  1918,  and  Nouvelles  de 
France,  Paris,  July  25,  1918.  But  it  is  not  so  much  a  special  knowl- 
edge of  drugs  that  this  story  reflects  as  the  special  kind  of  conver- 
sation that  is  heard  in  the  drug  store  of  a  typical  small  town.  It  is 
here  that  patients  of  all  classes  gather  to  report  on  common  ailments 
and  to  compare  common  remedies.  Latent  friendships  are  de- 
veloped via  patent  medicines.  Makes  the  Whole  World  Kin  does 
more  than  furnish  a  title  to  a  single  O.  Henry  story:  it  sums  the 
service  of  them  all. 


The  burglar  stepped  inside  the  window  quickly,  and  then 
he  took  his  time.  A  burglar  who  respects  his  art  always 
takes  his  time  before  taking  anything  else. 

The  house  was  a  private  residence.  By  its  boarded  front 
door  and  untrimmed  Boston  ivy  the  burglar  knew  that  the 
mistress  of  it  was  sitting  on  some  oceanside  piazza  telling  a 
sympathetic  man  in  a  yachting  cap  that  no  one  had  ever 
understood  her  sensitive,  lonely  heart.  He  knew  by  the  light 
in  the  third-story  front  windows,  and  by  the  lateness  of  the 
season,  that  the  master  of  the  house  had  come  home,  and 
would   soon  extinguish  his  light  and  retire.     For  it  was 

91 


92  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

September  of  the  year  and  of  the  soul,  in  which  season  the 
house's  good  man  comes  to  consider  roof  gardens  and  sten- 
ographers as  vanities,  and  to  desire  the  return  of  his  mate 
and  the  more  durable  blessings  of  decorum  and  the  moral 
excellencies. 

The  burglar  lighted  a  cigarette.  The  guarded  glow  of 
the  match  illuminated  his  salient  points  for  a  moment.  He 
belonged  to  the  third  type  of  burglars. 

This  third  type  has  not  yet  been  recognized  and  accepted. 
The  police  have  made  us  familiar  with  the  first  and  second. 
Their  classification  is  simple.  The  collar  is  the  distinguish- 
ing mark. 

When  a  burglar  is  caught  who  does  not  wear  a  collar  he  is 
described  as  a  degenerate  of  the  lowest  type,  singularly  vi- 
cious and  depraved,  and  is  suspected  of  being  the  desperate 
criminal  who  stole  the  handcuffs  out  of  Patrolman  Hennessy's 
pocket  in  1878  and  walked  away  to  escape  arrest. 

The  other  well-known  type  is  the  burglar  who  wears  a 
collar.  He  is  always  referred  to  as  a  Raffles  in  real  life.  He 
is  invariably  a  gentleman  by  daylight,  breakfasting  in  a  dress 
suit,  and  posing  as  a  paper-hanger,  while  after  dark  he  plies 
his  nefarious  occupation  of  burglary.  His  mother  is  an  ex- 
tremely wealthy  and  respected  resident  of  Ocean  Grove,  and 
when  he  is  conducted  to  his  cell  he  asks  at  once  for  a  nail 
file  and  the  Police  Gazette.  He  always  has  a  wife  in  every 
State  in  the  Union  and  fiancees  in  all  the  Territories,  and  the 
newspapers  print  his  matrimonial  gallery  out  of  their  stock 
of  cuts  of  the  ladies  who  were  cured  by  only  one  bottle  after 
having  been  given  up  by  five  doctors,  experiencing  great  re- 
lief after  the  first  dose. 

The  burglar  wore  a  blue  sweater.  He  was  neither  a  Raffles 
nor  one  of  the  chefs  from  Hell's  Kitchen.  The  police  would 
have  been  baffled  had  they  attempted  to  classify  him.  They 
have  not  yet  heard  of  the  respectable,  unassuming  burglar 
who  is  neither  above  nor  below  his  station. 

This  burglar  of  the  third  class  began  to  prowl.  He  wore  no 
masks,  dark  lanterns,  or  gum  shoes.    He  carried  a  38-calibre 


MAKES  THE  WHOLE  WORLD  KIN  93 

revolver  in  his  pocket,  and  he  chewed  peppermint  gum 
thoughtfully. 

The  furniture  of  the  house  was  swathed  in  its  summer  dust 
protectors.  The  silver  was  far  away  in  safe-deposit  vaults. 
The  burglar  expected  no  remarkable  "haul.'*  His  objective 
point  was  that  dimly  lighted  room  where  the  master  of  the 
house  should  be  sleeping  heavily  after  whatever  solace  he 
had  sought  to  lighten  the  burden  of  his  loneliness.  A 
*' touch"  might  be  made  there  to  the  extent  of  legitimate, 
fair  professional  profits — loose  money,  a  watch,  a  jewelled 
stick-pin — nothing  exorbitant  or  beyond  reason.  He  had 
seen  the  window  left  open  and  had  taken  the  chance. 

The  burglar  softly  opened  the  door  of  the  lighted  room. 
The  gas  was  turned  low.  A  man  lay  in  the  bed  asleep. 
On  the  dresser  lay  many  things  in  confusion — a  crumpled 
roll  of  bills,  a  watch,  keys,  three  poker  chips,  crushed  cigars, 
a  pink  silk  hair  bow,  and  an  unopened  bottle  of  bromo- 
seltzer  for  a  bulwark  in  the  morning. 

The  burglar  took  three  steps  toward  the  dresser.  The 
man  in  the  bed  suddenly  uttered  a  squeaky  groan  and  opened 
his  eyes.  His  right  hand  slid  under  his  pillow,  but  remained 
there. 

"Lay  still,"  said  the  burglar  in  conversational  tone.  Bur- 
glars of  the  third  type  do  not  hiss.  The  citizen  in  the  bed 
looked  at  the  round  end  of  the  burglar's  pistol  and  lay  still. 

"Now  hold  up  both  your  hands,"  commanded  the  burglar. 

The  citizen  had  a  little,  pointed,  brown-and-gray  beard, 
like  that  of  a  painless  dentist.  He  looked  solid,  esteemed, 
irritable,  and  disgusted.  He  sat  up  in  bed  and  raised  his 
right  hand  above  his  head. 

"Up  with  the  other  one,"  ordered  the  burglar.  "You 
might  be  amphibious  and  shoot  with  your  left.  You  can 
count  two,  can't  you?    Hurry  up,  now." 

"Can't  raise  the  other  one,"  said  the  citizen  with  a  contor- 
tion of  his  lineaments. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it.?" 

"Rheumatism  in  the  shoulder." 


94  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"  Inflammatory?  " 

"Was.     The  inflammation  has  gone  down." 

The  burglar  stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  holding  his  gun 
on  the  afilicted  one.  He  glanced  at  the  plunder  on  the 
dresser  and  then,  with  a  half -embarrassed  air  back  at  the  man 
in  the  bed.     Then  he,  too,  made  a  sudden  grimace. 

"Don't  stand  there  making  faces,"  snapped  the  citizen, 
bad-humoredly.  "If  you've  come  to  burgle  why  don't  yoii 
do  it?     There's  some  stuff  lying  around." 

"'Sense  me,"  said  the  burglar,  with  a  grin:  "but  it  just 
socked  me  one,  too.  It's  good  for  you  that  rheumatism 
and  me  happens  to  be  old  pals.  I  got  it  in  my  left  arm,  too. 
Most  anybody  but  me  would  have  popped  you  when  you 
wouldn't  hoist  that  left  claw  of  yours." 

"How  long  have  you  had  it?"  inquired  the  citizen. 

"Four  years.  I  guess  that  ain't  all.  Once  you've  got  it, 
it's  you  for  a  rheumatic  life — that's  my  judgment." 

"Ever  try  rattlesnake  oil?"  asked  the  citizen,  interestedly. 

"Gallons,"  said  the  burglar.  "If  all  the  snakes  I've  used 
the  oil  of  was  strung  out  in  a  row  they'd  reach  eight  times  as 
far  as  Saturn,  and  the  rattles  could  be  heard  at  Valparaiso, 
Indiana,  and  back." 

"Some  use  Chiselum's  Pills,"  remarked  the  citizen. 

"Fudge!"  said  the  burglar.  "Took 'em  five  months.  No 
good.  I  had  some  relief  the  year  I  tried  Finkelham's  Ex- 
tract, Balm  of  Gilead  poultices,  and  Potts's  Pain  Pulverizer; 
but  I  think  it  was  the  buckeye  I  carried  in  my  pocket  what 
done  the  trick." 

"Is  yours  worse  in  the  morning  or  at  night?"  asked  the 
citizen. 

"Night,"  said  the  burglar;  "just  when  I'm  busiest.     Say, 

take  down  that  arm  of  yours — I  guess  you  won't Say ! 

did  you  ever  try  Blickerstaff's  Blood  Builder?" 

"I  never  did.  Does  yours  come  in  paroxysms  or  is  it  a 
steady  pain?" 

The  burglar  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  rested  his 
gun  on  his  crossed  knee. 


MAKES  THE  WHOLE  WORLD  KIN  95 

"It  jumps,"  said  he.  "It  strikes  me  when  I  ain't  looking 
for  it.  I  had  to  give  up  second-story  work  because  I  got 
stuck  sometimes  half-way  up.  Tell  you  what— I  don't  be- 
lieve the  bloomin'  doctors  know  what  is  good  for  it." 

"Same  here.  I've  spent  a  thousand  dollars  without  get- 
ting any  relief .     Yours  swell  any?" 

*'0f  mornings.  And  when  it's  goin'  to  rain— great  Chris- 
topher!" .11. 
"Me,  too,"  said  the  citizen.  "I  can  tell  when  a  streak  of 
humidity  the  size  of  a  tablecloth  starts  from  Florida  on  its 
way  to  New  York.  And  if  I  pass  a  theatre  where  there's  an 
'East  Lynne'  matinee  going  on,  the  moisture  starts  my  left 
arm  jumping  Uke  a  toothache." 

"It's  undiluted— hades!"  said  the  burglar. 
"You're  dead  right,"  said  the  citizen. 
The  burglar  looked  down  at  his  pistol  and  thrust  it  into 
his  pocket  with  an  awkward  attempt  at  ease. 

"Say,  old  man,"  he  said,  constramedly,  "ever  try  opo- 
deldoc?" „      ^ 

"Slop!"  said  the  citizen  angrily.  "Might  as  well  rub  on 
restaurant  butter." 

"Sure,"  concurred  the  burglar.  "It's  a  salve  suitable  for 
little  Minnie  when  the  kitty  scratches  her  finger.  I'll  tell 
you  what!  We're  up  against  it.  I  only  find  one  thing  that 
eases  her  up.  Hey?  Little  old  sanitary,  ameliorating,  lest- 
we-forget  Booze.  Say— this  job's  off— 'sense  me— get  on 
70ur  clothes  and  let's  go  out  and  have  some.  'Sense  the 
liberty,  but — ouch!     There  she  goes  again!" 

"For  a  week,"  said  the  citizen,  "I  haven't  been  able  to 
dress  myself  without  help.     I'm  afraid  Thomas  is  in  bed, 

and " 

"Chmb  out,"  said  the  burglar,  "I'll  help  you  get  into 

your  duds." 

The  conventional  returned  as  a  tidal  wave  and  flooded 
the  citizen.     He  stroked  his  brown-and-gray  beard. 

"It's  very  unusual "  he  began. 

"Here's  your  shirt,"  said  the  burglar,  " fall  out.     I  know  a 


96  STORIES  FROM  0.  HENRY 

man  who  said  Omberry's  Ointment  fixed  him  in  two  weeks  so 
he  could  use  both  hands  in  tying  his  four-in-hand." 

As  they  were  going  out  the  door  the  citizen  turned  and 
started  back. 

"  'Liked  to  forgot  my  money,"  he  explained;  "laid  it  on 
the  dresser  last  night." 

The  burglar  caught  him  by  the  right  sleeve. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  bluffly.  "I  ask  you.  Leave  it  alone. 
I've  got  the  price.  Ever  try  witch  hazel  and  oil  of  winter- 
green?" 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE 

From  The  Voice  of  the  City.  First  published  in  The  World,  No- 
vember 27,  1904.  This  is  the  first  one  of  our  twenty-five  stories 
that  begins  with  a  philosophical  overture,  with  what  O.  Henry  has 
called  a  "recitative  by  the  chorus."  But  he  was  fond  of  such  be- 
ginnings:  see  Ulysses  and  the  Dogman,  Dougherty's  Eye-Opener ,  A 
Comedy  in  Rubbery  The  Green  Door,  The  Voice  of  the  City,  The  Har- 
binger, The  Venturers,  and  A  Municipal  Report  (page  224).  These 
openings  do  not  enable  the  reader  to  anticipate  the  denouement  but, 
with  the  denouement  reached  and  reviewed,  they  almost  compel 
him  to  believe  that  no  other  was  possible.  It  was  the  expositor  in 
O.  Henry,  rather  than  the  pure  narrator,  that  prefixed  these  over- 
tures. They  strike  the  keynote  and  enable  the  reader  to  attach  the 
plot  or  plan  of  the  story  to  a  central  motif.  In  this  opening 
O.  Henry  was  on  familiar  ground.  Two  years  before,  in  Round  the 
Circle,  he  had  written:  *'The  straight  line  is  Art.  Nature  moves 
in  circles.  A  straightforward  man  is  a  more  artificial  product  than  a 
diplomatist  is.  Men  lost  in  the  snow  travel  in  exact  circles  until 
they  sink,  exhausted,  as  their  footprints  have  attested.  Also, 
travelers  in  philosophy  and  other  mental  processes  frequently  wind 
up  at  their  starting-point."  See  also  Introduction  to  The  Making  of 
a  Netv  Yorker,  page  111. 

At  the  hazard  of  wearying  you  this  tale  of  vehement 
emotions  must  be  prefaced  by  a  discourse  on  geometry. 

Nature  moves  in  circles;  Art  in  straight  lines.  The  nat< 
ural  is  rounded;  the  artificial  is  made  up  of  angles.  A  man 
lost  in  the  snow  wanders,  in  spite  of  himself,  in  perfect  cir- 
cles; the  city  man's  feet,  denaturalized  by  rectangular  streets 
and  floors,  carry  him  ever  away  from  himself. 

The  round  eyes  of  childhood  typify  innocence;  the  nar- 
rowed line  of  the  flirt's  optic  proves  the  invasion  of  art.  The 
hori^pntal  mouth  is  the  mark  of  determined  cunning;  who  has 

87 


98  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

not  read  Nature's  most  spontaneous  lyric  in  lips  rounded 
for  the  candid  kiss? 

Beauty  is  Nature  in  perfection;  circularity  is  its  chief  at- 
tribute. Behold  the  full  moon,  the  enchanting  golf  ball, 
the  domes  of  splendid  temples,  the  huckleberry  pie,  the  wed- 
ding ring,  the  circus  ring,  the  ring  for  the  waiter,  and  the 
"round"  of  drinks. 

On  the  other  hand,  straight  lines  show  that  Nature  has 
been  deflected.  Imagine  Venus 's  girdle  transformed  into  a 
"straight  front*'! 

When  we  begin  to  move  in  straight  lines  and  turn  sharp 
corners  our  natures  begin  to  change.  The  consequence  is 
that  Nature,  being  more  adaptive  than  Art,  tries  to  conform 
to  its  sterner  regulations.  The  result  is  often  a  rather  curi- 
ous product — for  instance:  A  prize  chrysanthemum,  wood 
alcohol  whiskey,  a  Republican  Missouri,  cauliflower  au  gratiriy 
and  a  New  Yorker. 

Nature  is  lost  quickest  in  a  big  city.  The  cause  is  geomet- 
rical, not  moral.  The  straight  lines  of  its  streets  and  archi- 
tecture, the  rectangularity  of  its  laws  and  social  customs, 
the  undeviating  pavements,  the  hard,  severe,  depressing,  un- 
compromising rules  of  all  its  ways — even  of  its  recreations 
and  sports — coldly  exhibit  a  sneering  defiance  of  the  curved 
line  of  Nature. 

Wherefore,  it  may  be  said  that  the  big  city  has  demon- 
strated the  problem  of  squaring  the  circle.  And  it  may 
be  added  that  this  mathematical  introduction  precedes  an 
account  of  the  fate  of  a  Kentucky  feud  that  was  imported 
to  the  city  that  has  a  habit  of  making  its  importations  con- 
form to  its  angles. 

The  feud  began  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains  between 
the  Folwell  and  the  Harkness  families.  The  first  victim  of 
the  homespun  vendetta  was  a  'possum  dog  belonging  to  Bill 
Harkness.  The  Harkness  family  evened  up  this  dire  loss  by 
laying  out  the  chief  of  the  Folwell  clan.  The  Folwells  were 
prompt  at  repartee.  They  oiled  up  their  squirrel  rifles  and 
made  it  feasible  for  Bill  Harkness  to  follow  his  dog  to  a  land, 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE  99 

where  the  'possums  come  down  when  treed  without  the  stroke 
of  an  ax. 

The  feud  flourished  for  forty  years.  Harknesses  were 
shot  at  the  plough,  through  their  lamp-Kt  cabin  windows, 
coming  from  camp-meeting,  asleep,  in  duello,  sober  and 
otherwise,  singly  and  in  family  groups,  prepared  and  unpre- 
pared. Folwells  had  the  branches  of  their  family  tree  lopped 
off  in  similar  ways,  as  the  traditions  of  their  country  pre- 
scribed and  authorized. 

By  and  by  the  pruning  left  but  a  single  member  of  each 
family.  And  then  Cal  Harkness,  probably  reasoning  that 
further  pursuance  of  the  controversy  would  give  a  too  de- 
cided personal  flavor  to  the  feud,  suddenly  disappeared  from 
the  relieved  Cumberlands,  baulking  the  avenging  hand  of 
Sam,  the  ultimate  opposing  Folwell. 

A  year  afterward  Sam  Folwell  learned  that  his  hereditary, 
unsuppressed  enemy  was  living  in  New  York  City.  Sam 
turned  over  the  big  iron  wash-pot  in  the  yard,  scraped  off 
some  of  the  soot,  which  he  mixed  with  lard,  and  shined  his 
boots  with  the  compound.  He  put  on  his  store  clothes  of 
butternut  dyed  black,  a  white  shirt  and  collar,  and  packed 
a  carpet-sack  with  Spartan  lingerie.  He  took  his  squirrel 
rifle  from  its  hooks,  but  put  it  back  again  with  a  sigh.  How- 
ever ethical  and  plausible  the  habit  might  be  in  the  Cumber- 
lands,  perhaps  New  York  would  not  swallow  his  pose  of  hunt- 
ing squirrels  among  the  skyscrapers  along  Broadway.  An 
ancient  but  reliable  Colt's  revolver  that  he  resurrected  from  a 
bureau  drawer  seemed  to  proclaim  itself  the  pink  of  weapons 
for  metropolitan  adventure  and  vengeance.  This  and  a 
hunting-knife  in  a  leather  sheath,  Sam  packed  in  the  carpet- 
sack.  As  he  started,  muleback,  for  the  lowland  railroad 
station  the  last  Folwell  turned  in  his  saddle  and  looked 
grimly  at  the  little  cluster  of  white-pine  slabs  in  the  clump  of 
cedars  that  marked  the  Folwell  burying-ground. 

Sam  Folwell  arrived  in  New  York  in  the  night.  Still 
moving  and  living  in  the  free  circles  of  nature,  he  did  not 
perceive  the  formidable,  pitiless,  restless,  fierce  angles  of  the 


100  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

great  city  waiting  in  the  dark  to  close  about  the  rotundity 
of  his  heart  and  brain  and  mould  him  to  the  form  of  its  mil- 
lions of  reshaped  victims.  A  cabby  picked  him  out  of  the 
whirl,  as  Sam  himself  had  often  picked  a  nut  from  a  bed  of 
wind-tossed  autumn  leaves,  and  whisked  him  away  to  a  hotel 
commensurate  to  his  boots  and  carpet-sack. 

On  the  next  morning  the  last  of  the  Folwells  made  his 
sortie  into  the  city  that  sheltered  the  last  Harkness.  The 
Colt  was  thrust  beneath  his  coat  and  secured  by  a  narrow 
leather  belt;  the  hunting-knife  hung  between  his  shoulder- 
blades,  with  the  haft  an  inch  below  his  coat  collar.  He 
knew  this  much — that  Cal  Harkness  drove  an  express  wagon 
somewhere  in  that  town,  and  that  he,  Sam  Folwell,  had  come 
to  kill  him.  And  as  he  stepped  upon  the  sidewalk  the  red 
came  into  his  eye  and  the  feud-hate  into  his  heart. 

The  clamor  of  the  central  avenues  drew  him  thitherward. 
He  had  half  expected  to  see  Cal  coming  down  the  street  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  with  a  jug  and  a  whip  in  his  hand,  just  as 
he  would  have  seen  him  in  Frankfort  or  Laurel  City.  But 
an  hour  went  by  and  Cal  did  not  appear.  Perhaps  he  was 
waiting  in  ambush,  to  shoot  him  from  a  door  or  a  window. 
Sam  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  doors  and  windows  for  a  while. 

About  noon  the  city  tired  of  playing  with  its  mouse  anr^. 
suddenly  squeezed  him  with  its  straight  lines. 

Sam  Folwell  stood  where  two  great,  rectangular  arteries 
of  the  city  cross.  He  looked  four  ways,  and  saw  the  world 
hurled  from  its  orbit  and  reduced  by  spirit  level  and  tape  to 
an  edged  and  cornered  plane.  All  life  moved  on  tracks,  in 
grooves,  according  to  system,  within  boundaries,  by  rote. 
The  root  of  life  was  the  cube  root;  the  measure  of  existence 
was  square  measure.  People  streamed  by  in  straight  rows; 
the  horrible  din  and  crash  stupefied  him. 

Sam  leaned  against  the  sharp  corner  of  a  stone  building. 
Those  faces  passed  him  by  thousands,  and  none  of  them  were 
turned  toward  him.  A  sudden  foolish  fear  that  he  had  died 
and  was  a  spirit,  and  that  they  could  not  see  him,  seized  him. 
And  then  the  city  smote  him  with  loneliness. 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE  101 

A  fat  man  dropped  out  of  the  stream  and  stood  a  few  feet 
distant,  waiting  for  his  car.  Sam  crept  to  his  side  and 
shouted  above  the  tumult  into  his  ear: 

"The  Rankinses'  hogs  weighed  more'n  ourn  a  whole  passel, 
but  the  mast  in  thar  neighborhood  was  a  fine  chance  better 
than  what  it  was  down " 

The  fat  man  moved  away  unostentatiously,  and  bought 
roasted  chestnuts  to  cover  his  alarm. 

Sam  felt  the  need  of  a  drop  of  mountain  dew.  Across  the 
street  men  passed  in  and  out  through  swinging  doors.  Brief 
glimpses  could  be  had  of  a  glistening  bar  and  its  bedeckings. 
The  feudist  crossed  and  essayed  to  enter.  Again  had  Art 
eliminated  the  familiar  circle.  Sam's  hand  found  no  door- 
knob— it  slid,  in  vain,  over  a  rectangular  brass  plate  and 
polished  oak  with  nothing  even  so  large  as  a  pin's  head  upon 
which  his  fingers  might  close. 

Abashed,  reddened,  heartbroken,  he  walked  away  from 
the  bootless  door  and  sat  upon  a  step.  A  locust  club  tickled 
him  in  the  ribs. 

*'Take  a  walk  for  yourself,"  said  the  policeman.  "You've 
been  loafing  around  here  long  enough." 

At  the  next  corner  a  shrill  whistle  sounded  in  Sam's  ear. 
He  wheeled  around  and  saw  a  black-browed  villain  scowling 
at  him  over  peanuts  heaped  on  a  steaming  machine.  He 
started  across  the  street.  An  immense  engine,  running  with- 
out mules,  with  the  voice  of  a  bull  and  the  smell  of  a  smoky 
lamp,  whizzed  past,  grazing  his  knee.  A  cab-driver  bumped 
him  with  a  hub  and  explained  to  him  that  kind  words  were 
invented  to  be  used  on  other  occasions.  A  motorman 
clanged  his  bell  wildly  and,  for  once  in  his  life,  corroborated 
a  cab-driver.  A  large  lady  in  a  changeable  silk  waist  dug  an 
elbow  into  his  back,  and  a  newsy  pensively  pelted  him  with 
banana  rinds,  murmuring,  "  I  hates  to  do  it — but  if  anybody 
seen  me  let  it  pass!" 

Cal  Harkness,  his  day's  work  over  and  his  express  wagon 
stabled,  turned  the  sharp  edge  of  the  building  that,  by  the 
cheek  of  architects,  is  modeled  upon  a  safety  razor.    Out 


102  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

of  the  mass  of  hurrying  people  his  eye  picked  up,  three  yards 
away,  the  surviving  bloody  and  implacable  foe  of  his  kith 
and  kin. 

He  stopped  short  and  wavered  for  a  moment,  being  un- 
armed and  sharply  surprised.  But  the  keen  mountaineer's 
eye  of  Sam  Folwell  had  picked  him  out. 

There  was  a  sudden  spring,  a  ripple  in  the  stream  of  passers- 
by,  and  the  sound  of  Sam's  voice  crying: 

"Howdy,  Cal!     I'm  durned  glad  to  see  ye." 

And  in  the  angles  of  Broadway,  Fifth  Avenue,  and  Twenty 
third  Street  the  Cumberland  feudists  shook  hands. 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM 

From  The  Four  Million.  First  published  in  The  World,  December 
4,1904.  "The  irony  of  fate!"  we  say  on  reading  this  story,  or, 
with  Foe,  "The  imp  of  the  perverse!"  But  Foe's  unp  operated 
from  within,  never  from  without.  The  story  is  a  perfect  illustration 
of  O.  Henry's  genius  in  taking  the  merest  whifif  or  whimsy  of  an  idea» 
the  merest  wraith  or  gossamer  of  a  thought,  and  making  of  it  some- 
thing solid,  durable,  appeahng.  "  On  the  technical  side  of  his  craft," 
says  a  writer  in  The  Spectator  (London,  April  7,  1917),  "he  has 
probably  never  been  surpassed  either  in  fertility  or  ingenuity.  The 
original  themes  on  which  he  wove  his  stories  are  often  of  the  very 
slightest  description;  but  give  him  a  mannerism,  a  racial  contrast, 
an  inverted  proverb,  to  start  with,  and  his  inventive  opulence  would 
soon  clothe  it  in  a  wealth  of  appropriate  incident."  Was  O.  Hemy 
greater  in  designing  stories  or  in  clothing  them  with  appropriate 
incident?  Mr.  Firkins  (see  Introduction,  page  ix)  would  say  the 
former;  our  anonymous  English  critic,  the  latter.  If  the  two  re- 
quirements must  be  distinguished,  I  should  give  first  place  to 
O.Henry's  resourcefulness  in  filling  in.  It  is  not  difficult  to  think  of 
a  plan  or  plot  or  thesis  for  a  short  story;  but  to  flesh  the  skeleton,  to 
make  the  abstract  concrete,  to  hold  the  interest  increasingly  from 
first  detail  to  last — this  is  the  most  exigent  requirement  laid  upon 
the  narrative  artist.  When  we  call  a  short  story  original,  we  refer  of 
course  to  the  blend  of  theme  and  development  but  more  distmctively 
to  development  than  to  theme.  The  irony  of  fate  is  not  a  novel  or 
origmal  idea;  Anatole  France's  short  story,  Crainquehille,  develops 
the  same  motif .  But  the  incarnation  of  the  theme  in  Soapy  is  novel 
and  original.  Is  there  any  story  in  our  twenty-five  in  which  you 
thmk  the  complementary  detail  falls  below  the  excellence  of  the 
design.? 

On  his  bench  in  Madison  Square  Soapy  moved  uneasily. 
When  wild  geese  honk  high  of  nights,  and  when  women  with- 
out sealskin  coats  grow  kind  to  their  husbands,  and  when 

A03 


104  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Soapy  moves  uneasily  on  his  bench  in  the  park,  you  may 
know  that  winter  is  near  at  hand. 

A  dead  leaf  fell  in  Soapy 's  lap.  That  was  Jack  Frost's 
card.  Jack  is  kind  to  the  regular  denizens  of  Madison  Square 
and  gives  fair  w^arning  of  his  annual  call.  At  the  corners  of 
four  streets  he  hands  his  pasteboard  to  the  North  Wind, 
footman  of  the  mansion  of  All  Outdoors,  so  that  the  inhabit- 
ants thereof  may  make  ready. 

Soapy 's  mind  became  cognizant  of  the  fact  that  the  time 
had  come  for  him  to  resolve  himself  into  a  singular  Com- 
mittee of  Ways  and  Means  to  provide  against  the  coming 
rigor.     And  therefore  he  moved  uneasily  on  his  bench. 

The  hibernatorial  ambitions  of  Soapy  were  not  of  the 
highest.  In  them  there  were  no  considerations  of  Mediter- 
ranean cruises,  of  soporific  Southern  skies,  or  drifting  in  the 
Vesuvian  Bay.  Three  months  on  the  Island  was  what  his 
soul  craved.  Three  months  of  assured  board  and  bed  and 
congenial  company,  safe  from  Boreas  and  bluecoats,  seemed 
to  Soapy  the  essence  of  things  desirable. 

For  years  the  hospitable  Blackwell's  had  been  his  winter 
quarters.  Just  as  his  more  fortunate  fellow  New  Yorkers 
had  bought  their  tickets  to  Palm  Beach  and  the  Riviera  each 
winter,  so  Soapy  had  made  his  humble  arrangements  for  his 
annual  hegira  to  the  Island.  And  now  the  time  was  come. 
On  the  previous  night  three  Sabbath  new^spapers,  distributed 
beneath  his  coat,  about  his  ankles,  and  over  his  lap,  had  failed 
to  repulse  the  cold  as  he  slept  on  his  bench  near  the  spurting 
fountain  in  the  ancient  square.  So  the  Island  loomed  big 
and  timely  in  Soapy 's  mind.  He  scorned  the  provisions 
made  in  the  name  of  charity  for  the  city's  dependents.  In 
Soapy 's  opinion  the  Law  was  more  benign  than  Philanthropy. 
There  was  an  endless  round  of  institutions,  municipal  and 
eleemosynary,  on  which  he  might  set  out  and  receive  lodging 
and  food  accordant  with  the  simple  life.  But  to  one  of 
Soapy 's  proud  spirit  the  gifts  of  charity  are  encumbered. 
If  not  in  coin  you  must  pay  in  humiliation  of  spirit  for  every 
benefit  received  at  the  hands  of  philanthropy.     As  Csesar 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  105 

had  his  Brutus,  every  bed  of  charity  must  have  its  toll  of  a 
bath,  every  loaf  of  bread  its  compensation  of  a  private  and 
personal  inquisition.  Wherefore  it  is  better  to  be  a  guest  of 
the  law  which,  though  conducted  by  rules,  does  not  meddle 
unduly  with  a  gentleman's  private  affairs. 

Soapy,  having  decided  to  go  to  the  Island,  at  once  set  about 
accomplishing  his  desire.  There  were  many  easy  ways  of 
doing  this.  The  pleasantest  was  to  dine  luxuriously  at  some 
expensive  restaurant;  and  then,  after  declaring  insolvency, 
be  handed  over  quietly  and  without  uproar  to  a  policeman. 
An  accommodating  magistrate  would  do  the  rest. 

Soapy  left  his  bench  and  strolled  out  of  the  square  and 
across  the  level  sea  of  asphalt,  where  Broadway  and  Fifth 
Avenue  flow  together.  Up  Broadway  he  turned,  and  halted 
at  a  glittering  cafe,  where  are  gathered  together  nightly  the 
choicest  products  of  the  grape,  the  silkworm,  and  the  proto- 
plasm. 

Soapy  had  confidence  in  himself  from  the  lowest  button 
of  his  vest  upward.  He  was  shaven,  and  his  coat  was  decent 
and  his  neat  black,  ready-tied  four-in-hand  had  been  pre- 
sented to  him  by  a  lady  missionary  on  Thanksgiving  Day. 
If  he  could  reach  a  table  in  the  restaurant  unsuspected,  suc- 
cess would  be  his.  The  portion  of  him  that  would  show 
above  the  table  would  raise  no  doubt  in  the  waiter's  mind. 
A  roasted  mallard  duck,  thought  Soapy,  would  be  about  the 
thing — ^with  a  bottle  of  Chablis,  and  then  Camembert,  a 
demi-tasse  and  a  cigar.  One  dollar  for  the  cigar  would  be 
enough.  The  total  would  not  be  so  high  as  to  call  forth  any 
supreme  manifestation  of  revenge  from  the  cafe  manage- 
ment; and  yet  the  meat  would  leave  him  filled  and  happy  for 
the  journey  to  his  winter  refuge. 

But  as  Soapy  set  foot  inside  the  restaurant  door  the  head 
waiter's  eye  fell  upon  his  frayed  trousers  and  decadent  shoes. 
Strong  and  ready  hands  turned  him  about  and  conveyed  him 
in  silence  and  haste  to  the  sidewalk  and  averted  the  ignoble 
fate  of  the  menaced  mallard. 

Soapy  turned  off  Broadway.     It  seemed  that  his  route  to 


106  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

the  coveted  island  was  not  to  be  an  epicurean  one.     Some 
other  way  of  entering  Hmbo  must  be  thought  of. 

At  a  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue  electric  lights  and  cunningly 
displayed  wares  behind  plate-glass  made  a  shop  window  con- 
spicuous. Soapy  took  a  cobblestone  and  dashed  it  through 
the  glass.  People  came  running  around  the  corner,  a  police- 
man in  the  lead.  Soapy  stood  still,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  smiled  at  the  sight  of  brass  buttons. 

"WTiere's  the  man  that  done  that.^"  inquired  the  officer 
excitedly. 

"Don't  you  figure  out  that  I  might  have  had  something 
to  do  with  it.^ "  said  Soapy,  not  without  sarcasm,  but  friendly, 
as  one  greets  good  fortune. 

The  policeman's  mind  refused  to  accept  Soapy  even  as  a 
clue.  Men  who  smash  windows  do  not  remain  to  parley 
with  the  law's  minions.  They  take  to  their  heels.  The 
policeman  saw  a  man  half  way  down  the  block  running  to 
catch  a  car.  With  drawn  club  he  joined  in  the  pursuit. 
Soapy,  with  disgust  in  his  heart,  loafed  along,  twice  un- 
successful. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  was  a  restaurant  of  nc 
great  pretensions.  It  catered  to  large  appetites  and  modest 
purses.  Its  crockery  and  atmosphere  were  thick;  its  soup 
and  napery  thin.  Into  this  place  Soapy  took  his  accusive 
shoes  and  telltale  trousers  without  challenge.  At  a  table 
he  sat  and  consumed  beefsteak,  flapjacks,  doughnuts,  and 
pie.  And  then  to  the  waiter  he  betrayed  the  fact  that  the 
minutest  coin  and  himself  were  strangers. 

"Now,  get  busy  and  call  a  cop,"  said  Soapy.  "And  don't 
keep  a  gentleman  waiting." 

"No  cop  for  youse,"  said  the  waiter,  with  a  voice  like 
butter  cakes  and  an  eye  like  the  cherry  in  a  Manhattan 
cocktail.     "Hey,  Con!" 

Neatly  upon  his  left  ear  on  the  callous  pavement  two 
waiters  pitched  Soapy.  He  arose,  joint  by  joint,  as  a  car- 
penter's rule  opens,  and  beat  the  dust  from  his  clothes.  Ar- 
rest seemed  but  a  rosy  dream.     The  Island  seemed  very  far 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  107 

away.  A  policeman  who  stood  before  a  drug  store  two 
doors  away  laughed  and  walked  down  the  street. 

Five  blocks  Soapy  traveled  before  his  courage  permitted 
him  to  woo  capture  again.  This  time  the  opportunity  pre- 
sented what  he  fatuously  termed  to  himself  a  "cinch."  A 
young  woman  of  a  modest  and  pleasing  guise  was  standing 
before  a  show  window  gazing  with  sprightly  interest  at  its 
display  of  shaving  mugs  and  inkstands,  and  two  yards  from 
the  window  a  large  policeman  of  severe  demeanor  leaned 
against  a  water  plug. 

It  was  Soapy 's  design  to  assume  the  role  of  the  despicable 
and  execrated  "masher."  The  refined  and  elegant  appear- 
ance of  his  victim  and  the  contiguity  of  the  conscientious 
cop  encouraged  him  to  believe  that  he  would  soon  feel 
the  pleasant  official  clutch  upon  his  arm  that  would 
insure  his  winter  quarters  on  the  right  little,  tight  little 
isle. 

Soapy  straightened  the  lady  missionary's  ready-made  tie, 
dragged  his  shrinking  cuffs  into  the  open,  set  his  hat  at  a 
killing  cant,  and  sidled  toward  the  young  woman.  He  made 
eyes  at  her,  was  taken  with  sudden  coughs  and  "hems," 
smiled,  smirked,  and  went  brazenly  through  the  impudent 
and  contemptible  litany  of  the  "masher."  With  half  an  eye 
Soapy  saw  that  the  policeman  was  watching  him  fixedly. 
The  young  woman  moved  away  a  few  steps,  and  again  be- 
stowed her  absorbed  attention  upon  the  shaving  mugs. 
Soapy  followed,  boldly  stepping  to  her  side,  raised  his  hat 
and  said: 

"Ah  there,  Bedelia!  Don't  you  want  to  come  and  play 
in  my  yard?" 

The  policeman  was  still  looking.  The  persecuted  young 
woman  had  but  to  beckon  a  finger  and  Soapy  would  be  prac- 
tically en  route  for  his  insular  haven.  Already  he  imagined 
he  could  feel  the  cozy  warmth  of  the  station-house.  The 
young  woman  faced  him  and,  stretching  out  a  hand,  caught 
Soapy 's  coat  sleeve. 

**Sure,  Mike,"  she  said  joyfully,  "if  you'll  blow  me  to  a  pail 


108  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

of  suds  I'd  have  spoke  to  you  sooner,  but  the  cop  was 
watching.'* 

With  the  young  woman  playing  the  clinging  ivy  to  his  oak 
Soapy  walked  past  the  policeman  overcome  with  gloom.  He 
seemed  doomed  to  liberty. 

At  the  next  corner  he  shook  off  his  companion  and  ran. 
He  halted  in  the  district  where  by  night  are  found  the  light- 
est streets,  hearts,  vows,  and  librettos.  Women  in  furs  and 
men  in  greatcoats  moved  gaily  in  the  wintry  air.  A  sudden 
fear  seized  Soapy  that  some  dreadful  enchantment  had  ren- 
dered him  immune  to  arrest.  The  thought  brought  a  little 
of  panic  upon  it,  and  when  he  came  upon  another  policeman 
lounging  grandly  in  front  of  a  transplendent  theatre  he  caught 
at  the  immediate  straw  of  "disorderly  conduct." 

On  the  sidewalk  Soapy  began  to  yell  drunken  gibberish 
at  the  top  of  his  harsh  voice.  He  danced,  howled,  raved,  and 
otherwise  disturbed  the  welkin. 

The  policeman  twirled  his  club,  turned  his  back  to  Soapy 
and  remarked  to  a  citizen: 

*'  'Tis  one  of  them  Yale  lads  celebratin'  the  goose  egg  they 
give  to  the  Hartford  College.  Noisy;  but  no  harm.  We've 
instructions  to  lave  them  be." 

Disconsolate,  Soapy  ceased  his  unavailing  racket.  Would 
never  a  policeman  lay  hands  on  him.'^  In  his  fancy  the  Island 
seemed  an  unattainable  Arcadia.  He  buttoned  his  thin 
coat  against  the  chilling  wind. 

In  a  cigar  store  he  saw  a  well-dressed  man  lighting  a  cigar 
at  a  swinging  light.  His  silk  umbrella  he  had  set  by  the  door 
on  entering.  Soapy  stepped  inside,  secured  the  umbrella, 
and  sauntered  off  with  it  slowly.  The  man  at  the  cigar  light 
followed  hastily. 

"My  umbrella,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"Oh,  is  it.^"  sneered  Soapy,  adding  insult  to  petit  larceny. 
"Well,  why  don't  you  call  a  policeman?  I  took  it.  Your 
umbrella!  Why  don't  you  call  a  cop. ^  There  stands  one  on 
the  corner." 

The  umbrella  owner  slowed  his  steps.     Soapy  did  likewise,! 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  109 

with  a  presentiment  that  luck  would  again  run  against  him. 
The  policeman  looked  at  the  two  curiously. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  umbrella  man — "that  is — well,  you 
know  how  these  mistakes  occur — I — if  it's  your  umbrella 
I  hope  you'll  excuse  me — I  picked  it  up  this  morning  in 
a  restaurant — if  you  recognize  it  as  yours,  why — I  hope 
you'll " 

"Of  course  it's  mine,"  said  Soapy,  viciously. 

The  ex-umbrella  man  retreated.  The  policeman  hurried 
to  assist  a  tall  blonde  in  an  opera  cloak  across  the  street 
in  front  of  a  street  car  that  was  approaching  two  blocks  away. 

Soapy  walked  eastward  through  a  street  damaged  by  im- 
provements. He  hurled  the  umbrella  wrathfully  into  an 
excavation.  He  muttered  against  the  men  who  wear  helmets 
and  carry  clubs.  Because  he  wanted  to  fall  into  their 
clutches,  they  seemed  to  regard  him  as  a  king  who  could  do 
no  wrong. 

At  length  Soapy  reached  one  of  the  avenues  to  the  east 
where  the  glitter  and  turmoil  was  but  faint.  He  set  his  face 
down  this  toward  Madison  Square,  for  the  homing  instinct 
survives  even  when  the  home  is  a  park  bench. 

But  on  an  unusually  quiet  corner  Soapy  came  to  a  stand- 
still. Here  was  an  old  church,  quaint  and  rambling  and 
gabled.  Through  one  violet-stained  window  a  soft  light 
glowed,  where,  no  doubt,  the  organist  loitered  over  the  keys, 
making  sure  of  his  mastery  of  the  coming  Sabbath  anthem. 
For  there  drifted  out  to  Soapy 's  ears  sweet  music  that  caught 
and  held  him  transfixed  against  the  convolutions  of  the  iron 
fence. 

The  moon  was  above,  lustrous  and  serene;  vehicles  and 
pedestrians  were  few;  sparrows  twittered  sleepily  in  the  eaves 
— for  a  little  while  the  scene  might  have  been  a  country 
churchyard.  And  the  anthem  that  the  organist  played 
cemented  Soapy  to  the  iron  fence,  for  he  had  known  it  well 
in  the  days  when  his  life  contained  such  things  as  mothers 
and  roses  and  ambitions  and  friends  and  immaculate  thoughts 
and  collars. 


110  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

The  conjunction  of  Soapy 's  receptive  state  of  mind  and  the 
influences  about  the  old  church  wrought  a  sudden  and  won- 
derful change  in  his  soul.  He  viewed  with  swift  horror  the 
pit  into  which  he  had  tumbled,  the  degraded  days,  unworthy 
desires,  dead  hopes,  wTccked  faculties,  and  base  motives  that 
made  up  his  existence. 

And  also  in  a  moment  his  heart  responded  thrillingly  to 
this  novel  mood.  An  instantaneous  and  strong  impulse 
moved  him  to  battle  with  his  desperate  fate.  He  would  pull 
himself  out  of  the  mire;  he  would  make  a  man  of  him- 
self again;  he  would  conquer  the  evil  that  had  taken 
possession  of  him.  There  was  time;  he  was  comparatively 
young  yet;  he  would  resurrect  his  old  eager  ambitions  and 
pursue  them  without  faltering.  Those  solemn  but  sweet 
organ  notes  had  set  up  a  revolution  in  him.  To-morrow  he 
would  go  into  the  roaring  downtown  district  and  find  work. 
A  fur  importer  had  once  offered  him  a  place  as  driver.  He 
would  find  him  to-morrow  and  ask  for  the  position.  He 
would  be  somebody  in  the  world.     He  would 

Soapy  felt  a  hand  laid  on  his  arm.  He  looked  quickly 
around  into  the  broad  face  of  a  policeman. 

"What  are  you  doin'  here.'^"  asked  the  oflBcer. 

"Nothin',"  said  Soapy. 

"Then  come  along,"  said  the  policeman. 

"Three  months  on  the  Island,"  said  the  Magistrate  in  the 
Police  Court  the  next  morning. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER 

From  The  Trimmed  Lamp.  First  published  in  The  World,  Janu- 
ary 1,  1905.  The  second  paragraph  is  as  autobiographical  as  any- 
thing that  O.  Henry  ever  wrote  unless,  perhaps,  we  except  a 
paragraph  from  The  Voice  of  the  City:  "I  must  go  and  find  out,"  I 
said,  "what  is  the  Voice  of  this  city.  Other  cities  have  voices.  It 
is  an  assignment.  I  must  have  it.  New  York,"  I  continued,  in  a 
rising  tone,  "had  better  not  hand  me  a  cigar  and  say:  'Old  man,  I 
can't  talk  for  publication.'  No  other  city  acts  in  that  way.  Chicago 
says,  imhesitatingly,  'I  will';  Philadelphia  says,  'I  should';  New 
Orleans  says,  T  used  to';  Louisville  says,  'Don't  care  if  I  do';  St. 
Louis  says,  'Excuse  me';  Pittsburgh  says,  'Smoke  up.'     Now,  New 

York "     One  hundred  and  thirty-eight  of  O.  Henry's  stories 

take  place  in  New  York,  the  great  city  being  not  merely  the  station- 
ary locale  but  a  cooperative  agent  in  developing  the  plot.  What 
London  was  to  Johnson,  to  Lamb,  to  Dickens,  what  Paris  was  to 
Victor  Hugo,  that  was  New  York  to  O.  Henry.  But  with  a  differ- 
'ince.  O.  Henry  persisted  to  the  last  m  his  endeavor  to  body  forth 
\he  spirit  of  New  York,  to  find  its  central  characteristics,  to  differ- 
entiate it  from  other  cities,  to  appraise  and  phrase  not  only  its  more 
notable  streets,  parks,  places,  etc.,  but  its  distinctive  service  as  w^U. 
It  is  not  mere  description  in  which  he  excels;  it  is  description  as  an 
aid  to  characterization,  and  characterization  as  an  ally  of  mterpre- 
tation.  This  is  a  city,  so  runs  Raggles's  experience,  that  is  cold  and 
indifferent  on  the  surface  but  warm-hearted,  sympathetic,  helpful 
beneath  the  surface.  It  is  a  Levite  till  you  are  hurt ;  then  it  is  a  good 
Samaritan.  The  very  types  that  seemed  to  embody  the  aloofness  of 
New  York  are  the  first  to  reach  Raggles's  side  when  he  is  down. 
From  this  mdividual  solicitude  shown  for  the  fractured  Haggles  on 
the  pavement,  he  passes  to  the  organized  and  institutional  charity  of 
the  hospital.  Whoever  defames  New  York  now  has  Raggles  to 
reckon  with.  Compare  with  this  characteristic  of  New  York  the 
achievement  of  the  same  city  recorded  in  Squaring  the  Circle. 
page  97. 

Ill 


112  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Besides  many  other  things,  Raggles  was  a  poet.  He  was 
called  a  tramp;  but  that  was  only  an  elliptical  way  of  saying 
that  he  was  a  philosopher,  an  artist,  a  traveler,  a  naturalist, 
and  a  discoverer.  But  most  of  all  he  was  a  poet.  In  all  his 
life  he  never  wrote  a  line  of  verse;  he  lived  his  poetry.  His 
Odyssey  would  have  been  a  Limerick,  had  it  been  written. 
But,  to  Hnger  with  the  primary  proposition,  Raggles  was  a 
poet. 

Raggles's  specialty,  had  he  been  driven  to  ink  and  paper, 
would  have  been  sonnets  to  the  cities.  He  studied  cities  as 
women  study  their  reflections  in  mirrors;  as  children  study 
the  glue  and  sawdust  of  a  dislocated  doll;  as  the  men  who 
write  about  wild  animals  study  the  cages  in  the  zoo.  A  city 
to  Raggles  was  not  merely  a  pile  of  bricks  and  mortar, 
peopled  by  a  certain  number  of  inhabitants;  it  was  a  thing 
with  a  soul  characteristic  and  distinct;  an  individual  conglom- 
eration of  life,  with  its  own  peculiar  essence,  flavor,  and  feel- 
ing. Two  thousand  miles  to  the  north  and  south,  east  and 
west,  Raggles  wandered  in  poetic  fervor,  taking  the  cities 
to  his  breast.  He  footed  it  on  dusty  roads,  or  sped  magnifi- 
cently in  freight  cars,  counting  time  as  of  no  account.  And 
when  he  had  found  the  heart  of  a  city  and  listened  to  its 
secret  confession,  he  strayed  on,  restless,  to  another.  Fickle 
Raggles! — but  perhaps  he  had  not  met  the  civic  corporation 
that  could  engage  and  hold  his  critical  fancy. 

Through  the  ancient  poets  we  have  learned  that  the  cities 
are  feminine.  So  they  were  to  poet  Raggles;  and  his  mind 
carried  a  concrete  and  clear  conception  of  the  figure  that  sym- 
bolized and  typified  each  one  that  he  had  wooed. 

Chicago  seemed  to  swoop  down  upon  him  with  a  breezy 
suggestion  of  Mrs.  Partington,  plumes  and  patchouli,  and  to 
disturb  his  rest  with  a  soaring  and  beautiful  song  of  future 
promise.  But  Raggles  would  awake  to  a  sense  of  shivering 
cold  and  a  haunting  impression  of  ideals  lost  in  a  depressing 
aura  of  potato  salad  and  fish. 

Thus  Chicago  affected  him.  Perhaps  there  is  a  vagueness 
and  inaccuracy  in  the  description;  but  that   is  Raggles's 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER         113 

fault.  He  should  have  recorded  his  sensations  in  magazine 
poems. 

Pittsburgh  impressed  him  as  the  play  of  "Othello"  per- 
formed in  the  Russian  language  in  a  railroad  station  by  Dock- 
stader's  minstrels.  A  royal  and  generous  lady  this  Pittsburgh, 
though — ^homely,  hearty,  with  flushed  face,  washing  the 
dishes  in  a  silk  dress  and  white  kid  slippers,  and  bidding 
Raggles  sit  before  the  roaring  fireplace  and  drink  champagne 
with  his  pigs'  feet  and  fried  potatoes. 

New  Orleans  had  simply  gazed  down  upon  him  from  a 
balcony.  He  could  see  her  pensive,  starry  eyes  and  catch 
the  flutter  of  her  fan,  and  that  was  all.  Only  once  he  came 
face  to  face  with  her.  It  was  at  dawn,  when  she  was  flushing 
the  red  bricks  of  the  banquette  with  a  pail  of  water.  She 
laughed  and  hummed  a  chansonette  and  filled  Raggles's 
shoes  with  ice-cold  water.     Allons ! 

Boston  construed  herself  to  the  poetic  Raggles  in  an  erratic 
and  singular  way.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  drunk  cold 
tea  and  that  the  city  was  a  white,  cold  cloth  that  had  been 
bound  tightly  around  his  brow  to  spur  him  to  some  unknown 
but  tremendous  mental  effort.  And,  after  all,  he  came  to 
shovel  snow  for  a  livelihood;  and  the  cloth,  becoming  wet, 
tightened  its  knots  and  could  not  be  removed. 

Indefinite  and  unintelligible  ideas,  you  will  say;  but  your 
disapprobation  should  be  tempered  with  gratitude,  for  these 
are  poets'  fancies — and  suppose  you  had  come  upon  them 
in  verse! 

One  day  Raggles  came  and  laid  siege  to  the  heart  of  the 
great  city  of  Manhattan.  She  was  the  greatest  of  all;  and 
he  wanted  to  learn  her  note  in  the  scale ;  to  taste  and  appraise 
and  classify  and  solve  and  label  her  and  arrange  her  with  the 
other  cities  that  had  given  him  up  the  secret  of  their  individ- 
uality. And  here  we  cease  to  be  Raggles's  translator  and  be- 
come his  chronicler. 

Raggles  landed  from  a  ferry-boat  one  morning  and  walked 
into  the  core  of  the  town  with  the  blase  air  of  a  cosmopolite. 
He  was  dressed  with  care  to  play  the  role  of  an  "unidentified 


114  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

man."  No  country,  race,  class,  clique,  union,  party  clan,  or 
bowling  association  could  have  claimed  him.  His  clothing, 
which  had  been  donated  to  him  piece-meal  by  citizens  of 
different  height,  but  same  number  of  inches  around  the  heart, 
was  not  yet  as  uncomfortable  to  his  figure  as  those  speci- 
mens of  raiment,  self-measured,  that  are  railroaded  to  you 
by  transcontinental  tailors  with  a  suit  case,  suspenders,  silk 
handkerchief,  and  pearl  studs  as  a  bonus.  Without  money 
— as  a  poet  should  be — but  with  the  ardor  of  an  astronomer 
discovering  a  new  star  in  the  chorus  of  the  milky  way,  or  a 
man  who  has  seen  ink  suddenly  flow  from  his  fountain  pen, 
Raggles  wandered  into  the  great  city. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  drew  out  of  the  roar  and  commo- 
tion with  a  look  of  dumb  terror  on  his  countenance.  He 
was  defeated,  puzzled,  discomfited,  frightened.  Other  cities 
had  been  to  him  as  long  primer  to  read;  as  country  maidens 
quickly  to  fathom;  as  send-price-of-subscription-with-answer 
rebuses  to  solve;  as  oyster  cocktails  to  swallow;  but  here  was 
one  as  cold,  glittering,  serene,  impossible  as  a  four-carat 
diamond  in  a  window  to  a  lover  outside  fingering  damply 
in  his  pocket  his  ribbon-counter  salary. 

The  greetings  of  the  other  cities  he  had  known — their 
homespun  kindliness,  their  human  gamut  of  rough  charity, 
friendly  curses,  garrulous  curiosity,  and  easily  estimated 
credulity  or  indifference.  This  city  of  Manhattan  gave  him 
no  clue;  it  was  walled  against  him.  Like  a  river  of  adamant 
it  flowed  past  him  in  the  streets.  Never  an  eye  was  turned 
upon  him;  no  voice  spoke  to  him.  His  heart  yearned  for 
the  clap  of  Pittsburgh's  sooty  hand  on  his  shoulder;  for 
Chicago's  menacing  but  social  yawp  in  his  ear;  for  the  pale 
and  eleemosynary  stare  through  the  Bostonian  eyeglass — 
even  for  the  precipitate  but  unmalicious  boot-toe  of  Louisville 
^r  St.  Louis. 

On  Broadway  Raggles,  successful  suitor  of  many  cities, 
stood,  bashful,  like  any  country  swain.  For  the  first  time  he 
experienced  the  poignant  humiliation  of  being  ignored. 
And  when  he  tried  to  reduce  this  brilliant,  swiftly  changing, 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER         115 

ice-cold  city  to  a  formula  he  failed  utterly.  Poet  though  he 
was,  it  offered  him  no  color  similes,  no  points  of  comparison, 
no  flaw  in  its  polished  facets,  no  handle  by  which  he  could 
hold  it  up  and  view  its  shape  and  structure,  as  he  familiarly 
and  often  contemptuously  had  done  with  other  towns.  The 
houses  were  interminable  ramparts  loopholed  for  defense; 
the  people  were  bright  but  bloodless  spectres  passing  in 
sinister  and  selfish  array. 

The  thing  that  weighed  heaviest  on  Raggles's  soul  and 
clogged  his  poet's  fancy  was  the  spirit  of  absolute  egotism 
that  seemed  to  saturate  the  people  as  toys  are  saturated  with 
paint.  Each  one  that  he  considered  appeared  a  monster  of 
abominable  and  insolent  conceit.  Humanity  was  gone  from 
them;  they  were  toddling  idols  of  stone  and  varnish,  worship- 
ping themselves  and  greedy  for,  though  oblivious  of,  worship 
from  their  fellow  graven  images.  Frozen,  cruel,  implacable, 
impervious,  cut  to  an  identical  pattern,  they  hurried  on  their 
ways  like  statues  brought  by  some  miracles  to  motion,  while 
soul  and  feeling  lay  unaroused  in  the  reluctant  marble. 

Gradually  Raggles  became  conscious  of  certain  types. 
One  was  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  snow-white,  short  beard, 
pink,  unwrinkled  face  and  stony,  sharp  blue  eyes,  attired  in. 
the  fashion  of  a  gilded  youth,  who  seemed  to  personify  the 
city's  wealth,  ripeness,  and  frigid  unconcern.  Another  type 
was  a  woman,  tall,  beautiful,  clear  as  a  steel  engraving,  god- 
dess-like, calm,  clothed  like  the  princesses  of  old,  with  eyes 
as  coldly  blue  as  the  reflection  of  sunlight  on  a  glacier.  And 
another  was  a  by-product  of  this  town  of  marionettes — a 
broad,  swaggering,  grim,  theateningly  sedate  fellow,  with  a 
jowl  as  large  as  a  harvested  wheat  field,  the  complexion  of  a 
baptized  infant,  and  the  knuckles  of  a  prize-fighter.  This 
type  leaned  against  cigar  signs  and  viewed  the  world  with 
f rapped  contumely. 

A  poet  is  a  sensitive  creature,  and  Raggles  soon  shriveled 
in  the  bleak  embrace  of  the  undecipherable.  The  chill, 
sphinx-like,  ironical,  illegible,  unnatural,  ruthless  expression 
of  the  city  left  him  downcast  and  bewildered.     Had  it  no 


116  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

heart?  Better  the  woodpile,  the  scolding  of  vinegar-faced 
housewives  at  back  doors,  the  kindly  spleen  of  bartenders 
behind  provincial  free-lunch  counters,  the  amiable  truculence 
of  rural  constables,  the  kicks,  arrests,  and  happy-go-lucky 
chances  of  the  other  vulgar,  loud,  crude  cities  than  this  freez- 
ing heartlessness. 

Raggles  summoned  his  courage  and  sought  alms  from  the 
populace.  Unheeding,  regardless,  they  passed  on  without 
the  wink  of  an  eyelash  to  testify  that  they  were  conscious 
of  his  existence.  And  then  he  said  to  himself  that  this  fair 
but  pitiless  city  of  Manhattan  was  without  a  soul;  that  its 
inhabitants  were  manikins  moved  by  wires  and  springs,  and 
that  he  was  alone  in  a  great  wilderness. 

Raggles  started  to  cross  the  street.  There  was  a  blast,  a 
roar,  a  hissing  and  a  crash  as  something  struck  him  and 
hurled  him  over  and  over  six  yards  from  where  he  had  been. 
As  he  was  coming  down  like  the  stick  of  a  rocket  the  earth 
and  all  the  cities  thereof  turned  to  a  fractured  dream. 

Raggles  opened  his  eyes.  First  an  odor  made  itself  known 
to  him — an  odor  of  the  earliest  spring  flowers  of  Paradise. 
And  then  a  hand  soft  as  a  falling  petal  touched  his  brow. 
Bending  over  him  was  the  woman  clothed  like  the  princess 
of  old,  with  blue  eyes,  now  soft  and  humid  with  human 
sympathy.  Under  his  head  on  the  pavement  were  silks  and 
furs.  With  Raggles's  hat  in  his  hand  and  with  his  face 
pinker  than  ever  from  a  vehement  burst  of  oratory  against 
reckless  driving,  stood  the  elderly  gentleman  who  personified 
the  city's  wealth  and  ripeness.  From  a  nearby  cafe  hurried 
the  by-product  with  the  vast  jowl  and  baby  complexion, 
bearing  a  glass  full  of  a  crimson  fluid  that  suggested  delight- 
ful possibilities. 

"Drink  dis,  sport,"  said  the  by-product,  holding  the  glass 
to  Raggles's  lips. 

Hundreds  of  people  huddled  around  in  a  moment,  their 
faces  wearing  the  deepest  concern.  Two  flattering  and  gorge- 
ous policemen  got  into  the  circle  and  pressed  back  the  over- 
plus of  Samaritans.     An  old  lady  in  a  black  shawl  spoke 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER         117 

loudly  of  camphor;  a  newsboy  slipped  one  of  his  papers  be- 
neath Raggles's  elbow,  where  it  lay  on  the  muddy  pave- 
ment. A  brisk  young  man  with  a  notebook  was  asking  for 
names. 

A  bell  clanged  importantly,  and  the  ambulance  cleaned  a 
lane  through  the  crowd.  A  cool  surgeon  slipped  into  the 
midst  of  affairs. 

"How  do  you  feel,  old  man?"  asked  the  surgeon,  stooping 
easily  to  his  task.  The  princess  of  silks  and  satins  wiped  a 
red  drop  or  two  from  Raggles's  brow  with  a  fragrant  cobweb. 

*'Me.^"  said  Raggles,  wath  a  seraphic  smile,  *'I  feel  fine." 

He  had  found  the  heart  of  his  new  city. 

In  three  days  they  let  him  leave  his  cot  for  the  convales- 
cent ward  in  the  hospital.  He  had  been  in  there  an  hour 
when  the  attendants  heard  sounds  of  conflict.  Upon  inves- 
tigation they  found  that  Raggles  had  assaulted  and  damaged 
a  brother  convalescent — a  glowering  transient  whom  a  freight 
train  collision  had  sent  in  to  be  patched  up. 

"What's  all  this  about.^"  inquired  the  head  nurse. 

"He  was  runnin'  down  me  town,"  said  Raggles. 

"What  town?"  asked  the  nurse. 

"Noo  York,"  said  Raggles. 


A  COSMOPOLITE  IN  A  CAFE 

From  The  Four  Million.  First  published  in  The  World,  January 
22,  1905.  Does  not  the  leading  character  here  stand  out  with  the 
utmost  distinctness?  You  may  forget  that  he  was  named  E.  Rush- 
more  Coglan,  but  shall  j'ou  ever  forget  the  kind  of  man  that  he  was? 
He  is  not  a  hypocrite.  He  firmly  believes,  as  does  the  hero  in  Best- 
Seller,  that  he  is  what  he  is  proved  at  last  not  to  be.  He  is  an  ex- 
emplar not  only  of  Kipling's  quoted  lines  To  the  City  of  Bombay  but 
of  his  later  lines  on  Sussex : 

God  gave  all  men  all  earth  to  love, 

But  since  our  hearts  are  small. 
Ordained  for  each  one  spot  should  prove 

Beloved  over  all. 

It  is  greatly  to  E.  Rushmore  Coglan's  credit  that  he  is  self-deceived. 
Says  Tennyson: 

That  man's  the  best  Cosmopohte 
Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 

But  O.  Henry's  purpose  is  so  clear  and  the  character  plays  his  part 
so  well  that  to  read  the  story  is  to  remember  not  so  much  the  plan 
as  the  character  that  illustrates  the  plan.  Yet  E.  Rushmore  Coglan 
is  no  better  portrayed  than  Hargraves  or  Jimmy  Valentine  or  Tildy 
or  Masie  or  John  Perkins  or  Madame  Beaumont  or  Shark  Dodson  or 
at  least  a  half  dozen  of  the  characters  yet  to  appear.  Why,  then, 
is  the  charge  sometimes  brought  against  O.  Henry  that  he  failed  in 
the  ability  to  portray  unforgettable  characters?  Has  he  failed? 
Of  course  the  comparison  must  be  made  with  other  short  story 
writers,  not  with  novelists.  Can  you  mention  any  other  writer, 
living  or  dead,  who  confined  himself  strictly  to  the  short  story  and 
yet  lodged  more  characters  (not  names  of  characters)  in  the  memory 
of  more  readers  than  O.  Henrys  has  done?  The  name  of  the  charac- 
ter among  O.  Henry's  more  than  a  thousand  may  not  be  recalled. 

118 


A  COSMOPOLITE  IN  A  CAFE  119 

But  if  the  character  of  the  character,  his  reaction  to  his  environment, 
what  he  or  she  did  or  said,  the  distinctive  trait  of  human  nature  that 
each  illustrated,  the  obscure  motive  that  each  illumined— if  these 
come  back,  is  not  the  author's  art  vmdicated? 

At  midnight  the  cafe  was  crowded.  By  some  chance 
the  little  table  at  which  I  sat  had  escaped  the  eye  of  incom- 
ers, and  two  vacant  chairs  at  it  extended  their  arms  with 
venal  hospitality  to  the  influx  of  patrons. 

And  then  a  cosmopolite  sat  in  one  of  them,  and  I  was  glad, 
for  I  held  a  theory  that  since  Adam  no  true  citizen  of  the 
world  has  existed.  We  hear  of  them,  and  we  see  foreign 
labels  on  much  luggage,  but  we  find  travelers  instead  of 
cosmopolites. 

I  invoke  your  consideration  of  the  scene — the  marble- 
topped  tables,  the  range  of  leather-upholstered  wall  seats, 
the  gay  company,  the  ladies  dressed  in  demi-state  toilets, 
speaking  in  an  exquisite  visible  chorus  of  taste,  economy, 
opulence  or  art;  the  sedulons  and  largess-loving  gargons,  the 
music  wisely  catering  to  all  with  its  raids  upon  the  com- 
posers; the  melange  of  talk  and  laughter— and,  if  you  will, 
the  WUrzburger  in  the  tall  glass  cones  that  bend  to  your  lips 
as  a  ripe  cherry  sways  on  its  branch  to  the  beak  of  a  robber 
jay.  I  was  told  by  a  sculptor  from  Mauch  Chunk  that  the 
scene  was  truly  Parisian. 

My  cosmopolite  was  named  E.  Rushmore  Coglan,  and  he 
will  be  heard  from  next  summer  at  Coney  Island.  He  is  to 
establish  a  new  "attraction"  there,  he  informed  me,  offering 
kingly  diversion.  And  then  his  conversation  rang  along 
parallels  of  latitude  and  longitude.  He  took  the  great,  round 
world  in  his  hand,  so  to  speak,  familiarly,  contemptuously, 
and  it  seemed  no  larger  than  the  seed  of  a  Maraschino  cherry 
in  a  table  d'hote  grape  fruit.  He  spoke  disrespectfully  of  the 
equator,  he  skipped  from  continent  to  continent,  he  derided 
the  zones,  he  mopped  up  the  high  seas  with  his  napkin. 
With  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  would  speak  of  a  certain  bazaar 
in  Hyderabad.     Whiff !    He  would  have  you  on  skis  in  Lap- 


120  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

land.  Zip!  Now  you  rode  the  breakers  with  the  Kanakas 
at  Kealaikahiki.  Presto!  He  dragged  you  through  an 
Arkansas  post-oak  swamp,  let  you  dry  for  a  moment  on  the 
alkali  plains  of  his  Idaho  ranch,  then  whirled  you  into  the 
society  of  Viennese  archdukes.  Anon  he  would  be  telling 
you  of  a  cold  he  acquired  in  a  Chicago  lake  breeze  and  how 
old  Escamila  cured  it  in  Buenos  Ayres  with  a  hot  infusion 
of  the  chuchula  weed.  You  would  have  addressed  a  letter 
to  '*E.  Rushmore  Coglan,  Esq.,  the  Earth,  Solar  System, 
the  Universe,"  and  mailed  it,  feeling  confident  that  it  would 
be  delivered  to  him. 

I  was  sure  that  I  had  found  at  last  the  one  true  cosmopolite 
since  Adam,  and  I  listened  to  his  world-wide  discourse  fearful 
lest  I  should  discover  in  it  the  local  note  of  the  mere  globe- 
trotter. But  his  opinions  never  fluttered  or  drooped;  he  was 
as  impartial  to  cities,  countries,  and  continents  as  the  winds 
or  gravitation. 

And  as  E.  Rushmore  Coglan  prattled  of  this  little  planet 
I  thought  with  glee  of  a  great  almost-cosmopolite  who  wrote 
for  the  whole  world  and  dedicated  himseK  to  Bombay.  In  a 
poem  he  has  to  say  that  there  is  pride  and  rivalry  between  the 
cities  of  the  earth,  and  that  "the  men  that  breed  from  them, 
they  traflSc  up  and  down,  but  cling  to  their  cities'  hem  as  a 
child  to  the  mother's  gown."  And  whenever  they  walk 
*'by  roaring  streets  unknown"  they  remember  their  native 
city  "most  faithful,  foolish,  fond;  making  her  mere-breathed 
name  their  bond  upon  their  bond."  And  my  glee  was  roused 
because  I  had  caught  Mr.  Kipling  napping.  Here  I  had 
found  a  man  not  made  from  dust;  one  who  had  no  narrow 
boasts  of  birthplace  or  country,  one  who,  if  he  bragged  at  all, 
would  brag  of  his  whole  round  globe  against  the  Martians  and 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Moon. 

Expression  on  these  subjects  was  precipitated  from  E. 
Rushmore  Coglan  by  the  third  corner  to  our  table.  While 
Coglan  was  describing  to  me  the  topography  along  the  Si- 
berian Railway  the  orchestra  glided  into  a  medley.  The 
concluding  air  was  "Dixie,"  and  as  the  exliilarating  notes 


A  COSMOPOLITE  IN  A  CAFfi  121 

tumbled  forth  they  were  almost  overpowered  by  a  great 
clapping  of  hands  from  almost  every  table. 

It  is  worth  a  paragraph  to  say  that  this  remarkable  scene 
can  be  witnessed  every  evening  in  numerous  cafes  in  the  City 
of  New  York.  Tons  of  brew  have  been  consumed  over  theor- 
ies to  account  for  it.  Some  have  conjectured  hastily  that  all 
Southerners  in  town  hie  themselves  to  cafes  at  nightfall. 
This  applause  of  the  *' rebel"  air  in  a  Northern  city  does 
puzzle  a  little;  but  it  is  not  insolvable.  The  war  with  Spain, 
many  years'  generous  mint  and  watermelon  crops,  a  few 
long-shot  winners  at  the  New  Orleans  race  track,  and  the 
brilliant  banquets  given  by  the  Indiana  and  Kansas  citizens 
who  compose  the  North  Carolina  Society  have  made  the 
South  rather  a  *'fad"  in  Manhattan.  Your  manicure  will 
lisp  softly  that  your  left  forefinger  reminds  her  so  much  of  a 
gentleman's  in  Richmond,  Va.  Oh,  certainly;  but  many  a 
lady  has  to  work  now — the  war,  you  know. 

When  "Dixie"  was  being  played  a  dark-haired  young  man 
sprang  up  from  somewhere  with  a  Mosby  guerrilla  yell  and 
waved  frantically  his  soft-brimmed  hat.  Then  he  strayed 
through  the  smoke,  dropped  into  the  vacant  chair  at  our 
table,  and  pulled  out  cigarettes. 

The  evening  was  at  the  period  when  reserve  is  thawed. 
One  of  us  mentioned  three  Wurzburgers  to  the  waiter;  the 
dark-haired  young  man  acknowledged  his  inclusion  in  the 
order  by  a  smile  and  a  nod.  I  hastened  to  ask  him  a  question 
because  I  wanted  to  try  out  a  theory  I  had. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  I  began,  "whether  you  are 
from " 

The  fist  of  E.  Rushmore  Coglan  banged  the  table  and  I  was 
jarred  into  silence. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  he,  "but  that's  a  question  I  never  like 
to  hear  asked.  What  does  it  matter  where  a  man  is  from? 
Is  it  fair  to  judge  a  man  by  his  post-office  address?  WTiy, 
I've  seen  Kentuckians  who  hated  whiskey,  Virginians  who 
weren't  descended  from  Pocahontas,  Indianians  who  hadn't 
written  a  novel,  Mexicans  who  didn't  wear  velvet  trousers 


122  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

with  silver  dollars  sewed  along  the  seams,  funny  Englishmen, 
spendthrift  Yankees,  cold-blooded  Southerners,  narrow- 
minded  Westerners,  and  New  Yorkers  who  were  too  busy  to 
stop  for  an  hour  on  the  street  to  watch  a  one-armed  grocer's 
clerk  do  up  cranberries  in  paper  bags.  Let  a  man  be  a  man 
and  don't  handicap  him  with  the  label  of  any  section." 

"Pardon  me,"  I  said,  "but  my  curiosity  was  not  alto- 
gether an  idle  one.  I  know  the  South,  and  when  the  band 
plays  'Dixie'  I  like  to  observe.  I  have  formed  the  belief  that 
the  man  who  applauds  that  air  with  special  violence  and  os- 
tensible sectional  loyalty  is  invariably  a  native  of  either  Se- 
caucus,  N.  J.,  or  the  district  between  Murray  Hill  Lyceum 
and  the  Harlem  River,  this  city.  I  was  about  to  put  my 
opinion  to  the  test  by  inquiring  of  this  gentleman  when 
you  interrupted  with  your  own — larger  theory,  I  must 
confess." 

And  now  the  dark-haired  young  man  spoke  to  me,  and  it 
became  evident  that  his  mind  also  moved  along  its  own  set 
of  grooves. 

"I  should  like  to  be  a  periwinkle,"  said  he,  mysteriously, 
"on  the  top  of  a  valley,  and  sing  too-ralloo-ralloo." 

This  was  clearly  too  obscure,  so  I  turned  again  to  Coglan. 

"I've  been  around  the  world  twelve  times,"  said  he.  "I 
know  an  Esquimau  in  IJpernavik  who  sends  to  Cincinnati  for 
his  neckties,  and  I  saw  a  goatherder  in  Uruguay  who  won  a 
prize  in  a  Battle  Creek  breakfast  food  puzzle  competition.  I 
pay  rent  on  a  room  in  Cairo,  Egypt,  and  another  in  Yoko- 
hama all  the  year  around.  I've  got  slippers  waiting  for  me 
in  a  tea-house  in  Shanghai,  and  I  don't  have  to  tell  'em  how 
to  cook  my  eggs  in  Rio  Janeiro  or  Seattle.  It's  a  mighty  little 
old  world.  What's  the  use  of  bragging  about  being  from  the 
North,  or  the  South,  or  the  old  manor  house  in  the  dale,  or 
Euclid  Avenue,  Cleveland,  or  Pike's  Peak,  or  Fairfax  County, 
Va.,  or  Hooligan's  Flats  or  any  place?  It'll  be  a  better  world 
when  we  quit  being  fools  about  some  mildewed  town  or  ten 
acres  of  swampland  just  because  we  happened  to  be  born 
there." 


A  COSMOPOLITE  IN  A  CAFE  123 

"You  seem  to  be  a  genuine  cosmopolite,"  I  said  admiringly. 
"But  it  also  seems  that  you  would  decry  patriotism." 

"  A  relic  of  the  stone  age,"  declared  Coglan,  warmly.  "  We 
are  all  brothers— Chinamen,  Englishmen,  Zulus,  Patagonians, 
and  the  people  in  the  bend  of  the  Kaw  River.  Some  day  all 
this  petty  pride  in  one's  city  or  State  or  section  or  country 
will  be  wiped  out,  and  we'll  all  be  citizens  of  the  world,  as  we 
ought  to  be." 

"  But  while  you  are  wandering  in  foreign  lands,"  I  persisted, 
"do  not  your  thoughts  revert  to  some  spot — some  dear 
and " 

*'Nary  a  spot,"  interrupted  E.  R.  Coglan,  flippantly. 
"The  terrestrial,  globular,  planetary  hunk  of  matter,  slightly 
flattened  at  the  poles,  and  known  as  the  Earth  is  my  abode. 
I've  met  a  good  many  object-bound  citizens  of  this  country 
abroad.  I've  seen  men  from  Chicago  sit  in  a  gondola  in  Ven- 
ice on  a  moonlight  night  and  brag  about  their  drainage  canal. 
I've  seen  a  Southerner  on  being  introduced  to  the  King  of 
England  hand  that  monarch,  without  batting  his  eyes,  the 
information  that  his  grand-aunt  on  his  mother's  side  was  re- 
lated by  marriage  to  the  Perkinses,  of  Charleston.  I  knew  a 
New  Yorker  who  was  kidnapped  for  ransom  by  some  Afghan- 
istan bandits.  His  people  sent  over  the  money  and  he  came 
back  to  Kabul  with  the  agent.  'Afghanistan?'  the  natives 
said  to  him  through  an  interpreter.  'Well,  not  so  slow,  do 
you  think?'  'Oh,  I  don't  know,'  says  he,  and  he  begins  to 
tell  them  about  a  cab  driver  at  Sixth  Avenue  and  Broadway. 
Those  ideas  don't  suit  me.  I'm  not  tied  down  to  anything 
that  isn't  8,000  miles  in  diameter.  Just  put  me  down  as  E. 
Rushmore  Coglan,  citizen  of  the  terrestrial  sphere." 

My  cosmopolite  made  a  large  adieu  and  left  me,  for  he 
thought  he  saw  some  one  through  the  chatter  and  smoke 
whom  he  knew.  So  I  was  left  with  the  would-be  periwinkle, 
who  was  reduced  to  Wurzburger  without  further  ability  to 
voice  his  aspirations  to  perch,  melodious,  upon  the  summit  of 
a  valley. 

I  sat  reflecting  upon  my  evident  cosmopolite  and  wonder- 


124  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

ing  how  the  poet  had  managed  to  miss  him.  He  was  my 
discovery  and  I  beheved  in  him.  How  was  it.^  "The  men 
that  breed  from  them  they  traffic  up  and  down,  but  cHng  to 
their  cities*  hem  as  a  child  to  the  mother's  gown." 

Not  so  E.  Rushmore  Coglan.  With  the  whole  world  for 
his 

My  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a  tremendous  noise 
and  conflict  in  another  part  of  the  cafe.  I  saw  above  the 
heads  of  the  seated  patrons  E.  Rushmore  Coglan  and  a 
stranger  to  me  engaged  in  terrific  battle.  They  fought  be- 
tween the  tables  like  Titans,  and  glasses  crashed,  and  men 
caught  their  hats  up  and  were  knocked  down,  and  a  brunette 
screamed,  and  a  blonde  began  to  sing  "Teasing." 

My  cosmopolite  was  sustaining  the  pride  and  reputation 
of  the  Earth  when  the  waiters  closed  in  on  both  combatants 
with  their  famous  flying  wedge  formation  and  bore  them  out- 
side, still  resisting. 

I  called  McCarthy,  one  of  the  French  gargons,  and  asked 
him  the  cause  of  the  conflict. 

"The  man  with  the  red  tie"  (that  was  my  cosmopolite), 
said  he,  "got  hot  on  account  of  things  said  about  the  bum 
sidewalks  and  water  supply  of  the  place  he  come  from  by  the 
other  guy." 

"Why,"  said  I,  bewildered,  "that  man  is  a  citizen  of  the 
world — a  cosmopolite.     He " 

"Orginally  from  Mattawamkeag,  Maine,  he  said,"  con- 
tinued McCarthy,  "and  he  wouldn't  stand  for  no  knockin' 
the  place." 


MAMMON  AND  THE  ARCHER 

From  The  Four  Million.  First  published  in  The  Worlds  March  19. 
1905.  This  has  been  called  "perhaps  the  O.  Henriest  of  all  O. 
Henry's  stories. "  Why?  Following  is  a  tentative  but  by  no  means 
complete  summary:  (1)  The  background  or  setting,  "the  vast 
space  where  Broadway,  Sixth  Avenue,  and  Thirty-fourth  Street 
cross  one  another,"  is  preeminently  O.  Henry  Land.  It  is  not  only 
the  Where?  of  the  main  action  of  the  story  but  the  Why?  and  the 
How?  "In  one  sense,"  says  Francis  Hackett,  "Broadway  is  the 
spinal  column  of  his  art,  and  the  nerve  branches  cover  all  Manhat- 
tan." (2)  Anthony  Rockwall  and  his  sister.  Aunt  Ellen,  are  con- 
trasted in  a  manner  and  spirit  peculiarly  O.  Henryesque.  (3)  The 
part  of  the  story  following  "The  story  should  end  here.  .  .  . 
But  we  must  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  well  for  truth,"  gives  what  is 
popularly  known  as  the  O.  Henry  touch.  It  exhibits  the  blending  of 
the  unexpected  but  inevitable,  the  unlooked-for  but  not  unprepared' 
for.  (4)  The  humor  is  irresistible  but  kindly,  elemental,  con- 
tagious. You  want  to  read  the  story  aloud  to  others  but  you  do  not 
have  to  choose  your  audience  for  fear  that  feelings  will  be  hurt. 
There  is  no  class  spirit  in  it.  Aunt  Ellen  is  sure  that  the  ring  won; 
Rockwall  thinks  mammon  was  the  victor;  we  know  at  last  that  the 
happy  result  was  brought  about  by  the  cooperation  of  the  two.  (5) 
The  ring  in  this  story,  the  mole  by  the  left  eyebrow  in  The  Furnished 
Room,  and  the  button  in  A  Municipal  Report  illustrate  a  favorite 
technical  device  of  the  author.  (6)  Equally  characteristic  are  the 
piquancy,  originality,  and  picturesqueness  of  the  style.  "O.  Henry 
can  introduce  a  felicity,"  says  a  critic,  "with  a  noiselessness  that 
numbers  him  for  a  flying  second  among  the  sovereigns  of  English." 
Do  you  find  examples  in  this  story?  You  will  find  them  m  the  story 
that  follows. 

Old  Anthony  Rockwall,  retired  manufacturer  and  pro- 
prietor of  Rockwall's  Eureka  Soap,  looked  out  the  library 
mndow  of  his  Fifth  Avenue  mansion  and  grinned.    His 

125 


126  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

neighbor  to  the  right — the  aristocratic  clubman,  G.  Van 
Schuylight  Siiffolk-Jones — came  out  to  his  waiting  motor* 
car,  wrinkling  a  contumelious  nostril,  as  usual,  at  the  Italian 
renaissance  sculpture  of  the  soap  palace's  front  elevation. 

"Stuck-up  old  statuette  of  nothing  doing!"  commented 
the  ex-Soap  King.  "The  Eden  Musee'll  get  that  old  frozen 
Nesselrode  yet  if  he  don't  w^atch  out.  I'll  have  this  house 
painted  red,  white,  and  blue  next  summer  and  see  if  that'll 
make  his  Dutch  nose  turn  up  any  higher." 

And  then  Anthony  Rockw^all,  who  never  cared  for  bells, 
went  to  the  door  of  his  library  and  shouted  "Mike!"  in  the 
same  voice  that  had  once  chipped  off  pieces  of  the  welkin  on 
the  Kansas  prairies. 

"Tell  my  son,"  said  Anthony  to  the  answering  menial, 
**to  come  in  here  before  he  leaves  the  house." 

When  young  Rockwall  entered  the  library  the  old  man 
laid  aside  his  newspaper,  looked  at  him  with  a  kindly  grim- 
ness  on  his  big,  smooth,  ruddy  countenance,  rumpled  his  mop 
of  white  hair  with  one  hand,  and  rattled  the  keys  in  his  pocket 
with  the  other. 

"Richard,"  said  Anthony  Rockwall,  "what  do  you  pay 
for  the  soap  that  you  use?" 

Richard,  only  six  months  home  from  college,  was  startled  a 
little.  He  had  not  yet  taken  the  measure  of  this  sire  of  his, 
who  was  as  full  of  unexpectednesses  as  a  girl  at  her  first  party. 

"Six  dollars  a  dozen,  I  think,  dad." 

"And  your  clothes?" 

"I  suppose  about  sixty  dollars,  as  a  rule." 

"You're  a  gentleman,"  said  Anthony,  decidedly.  "I've 
heard  of  these  young  bloods  spending  $24  a  dozen  for  soap, 
and  going  over  the  hundred  mark  for  clothes.  You've  got  as 
much  money  to  waste  as  any  of  'em,  and  yet  you  stick  to 
what's  decent  and  moderate.  Now  I  use  the  old  Eureka — 
not  only  for  sentiment,  but  it's  the  purest  soap  made.  When- 
ever you  pay  more  than  10  cents  a  cake  for  soap  you  buy 
bad  perfumes  and  labels.  But  50  cents  is  doing  very  w^ell  for 
a  young  man  in  your  generation,  position,  and  condition.    As 


MAMMON  AND  THE  ARCHER  127 

I  said,  you're  a  gentleman.  They  say  it  takes  three  genera- 
tions to  make  one.  They're  off.  Money'll  do  it  as  sHck  as 
soap  grease.  It's  made  you  one.  By  hokey!  it's  almost 
made  one  of  me.  I'm  nearly  as  impolite  and  disagreeable 
and  ill-mannered  as  these  two  old  Knickerbocker  gents  on 
each  side  of  me  that  can't  sleep  of  nights  because  I  bought  in 
between  'em." 

"There  are  some  things  that  money  can't  accomplish," 
remarked  young  Rockwall,  rather  gloomily. 

"Now,  don't  say  that,"  said  old  Anthony,  shocked.  "I 
bet  my  money  on  money  every  time.  I've  been  through  the 
encyclopaedia  down  to  Y  looking  for  something  you  can't  buy 
with  it;  and  I  expect  to  have  to  take  up  the  appendix  next 
week.  I'm  for  money  against  the  field.  Tell  me  something 
money  won't  buy." 

"For  one  thing,"  answered  Richard,  rankling  a  little,  "it 
won't  buy  one  into  the  exclusive  circles  of  society." 

"Oho!  won't  it.''"  thundered  the  champion  of  the  root  of 
evil.  "You  tell  me  where  your  exclusive  circles  would  be  if 
the  first  Astor  hadn't  had  the  money  to  pay  for  his  steerage 
passage  over?" 

Richard  sighed. 

"And  that's  what  I  was  coming  to,"  said  the  old  man,  less 
boisterously.  "  That's  why  I  asked  you  to  come  in.  There's 
something  going  wrong  with  you,  boy.  I've  been  noticing  it 
for  two  weeks.  Out  with  it.  I  guess  I  could  lay  my  hands 
on  eleven  millions  within  twenty-four  hours,  besides  the  real 
estate.  If  it's  your  liver,  there's  the  Rambler  down  in  the 
bay,  coaled,  and  ready  to  steam  down  to  the  Bahamas  in  two 
days." 

"Not  a  bad  guess,  dad;  you  haven't  missed  it  far." 

"Ah,"  said  Anthony,  keenly;  "what's  her  name.^^" 

Richard  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  library  floor. 
There  was  enough  comradeship  and  sympathy  in  this  crude 
old  father  of  his  to  draw  his  confidence. 

"Why don't  you  ask  her.^ " demanded  old  Anthony.  "She'll 
jump  at  you.     You've  got  the  money  and  the  looks,  and 


128  STORIES  FROM  0.  HENRY 

you're  a  decent  boy.  Your  hands  are  clean.  You've  got  no 
Eureka  soap  on  'em.  You've  been  to  college,  but  she'll 
overlook  that." 

**I  haven't  had  a  chance,"  said  Richard. 

"Make  one,"  said  Anthony.  "Take  her  for  a  walk  in  the 
park,  or  a  straw  ride,  or  walk  home  with  her  from  church. 
Chance!     Pshaw!" 

"You  don't  know  the  social  mill,  dad.  She's  part  of  the 
stream  that  turns  it.  Every  hour  and  minute  of  her  time  is 
arranged  for  days  in  advance.  I  must  have  that  girl,  dad, 
or  this  town  is  a  blackjack  swamp  forevermore.  And  I  can't 
write  it — I  can't  do  that." 

"Tut!"  said  the  old  man.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
with  all  the  money  I've  got  you  can't  get  an  hour  or  two  of  a 
girl's  time  for  yourself.'^" 

"I've  put  it  off  too  late.  She's  going  to  sail  for  Europe  at 
noon  day  after  to-morrow  for  a  two  years'  stay.  I'm  to 
s€3  her  alone  to-morrow  evening  for  a  few  minutes.  She's 
at  Larchmont  now  at  her  aunt's.  I  can't  go  there.  But 
I'm  allowed  to  meet  her  with  a  cab  at  the  Grand  Central 
Station  to-morrow  evening  at  the  8.30  train.  We  drive  down 
Broadway  to  Wallack's  at  a  gallop,  where  her  mother  and  a 
box  party  will  be  w^aiting  for  us  in  the  lobby.  Do  you  think 
she  would  listen  to  a  declaration  from  me  during  that  six  or 
eight  minutes  under  those  circumstances?  No.  And  what 
chance  would  I  have  in  the  theatre  or  afterward?  None. 
No,  dad,  this  is  one  tangle  that  your  money  can't  unravel. 
We  can't  buy  one  minute  of  time  with  cash;  if  we  could,  rich 
people  would  live  longer.  There's  no  hope  of  getting  a  talk 
with  Miss  Lantry  before  she  sails." 

"All  right,  Richard,  my  boy,"  said  old  Anthony,  cheerfully. 
"You  may  run  along  do\\Ti  to  your  club  now.  I'm  glad  it 
ain't  your  liver.  But  don't  forget  to  burn  a  few  punk  sticks 
in  the  joss  house  to  the  great  god  Mazuma  from  time  to  time. 
You  say  money  won't  buy  time?  Well,  of  course,  you  can't 
order  eternity  wrapped  up  and  delivered  at  your  residence 
for  a  price,  but  I've  seen  Father  Time  get  pretty  bad  stone 


MAMMON  AND  THE  ARCHER  1^9 

bruises  on  his  heels  when  he  walked  through  the  gold  dig- 
gings." 

That  night  came  Aunt  Ellen,  gentle,  sentimental,  wrinkled, 
sighing,  oppressed  by  wealth,  in  to  Brother  Anthony  at  his 
evening  paper,  and  began  discourse  on  the  subject  of  lovers' 
woes. 

"He  told  me  all  about  it,"  said  brother  Anthony,  yawning. 
**I  told  him  my  bank  account  was  at  his  service.  And  then 
he  began  to  knock  money.  Said  money  couldn't  help.  Said 
the  rules  of  society  couldn't  be  bucked  for  a  yard  by  a  team  of 
ten-millionaires. ' ' 

"Oh,  Anthony,"  sighed  Aunt  Ellen,  "I  wish  you  would  not 
think  so  much  of  money.  Wealth  is  nothing  where  a  true 
affection  is  concerned.  Love  is  all-powerful.  If  he  only  had 
spoken  earlier!  She  could  not  have  refused  our  Richard. 
But  now  I  fear  it  is  too  late.  He  will  have  no  opportunity 
to  address  her.  All  your  gold  cannot  bring  happiness  to  your 
son." 

At  eight  o'clock  the  next  evening  Aunt  Ellen  took  a  quaint 
old  gold  ring  from  a  moth-eaten  case  and  gave  it  to  Richard. 

"Wear  it  to-night,  nephew,"  she  begged.  "Your  mother 
gave  it  to  me.  Good  luck  in  love  she  said  it  brought.  She 
asked  me  to  give  it  to  you  when  you  had  found  the  one  you 
loved." 

Young  Rockwall  took  the  ring  reverently  and  tried  it  on 
his  smallest  finger.  It  slipped  as  far  as  the  second  joint  and 
stopped.  He  took  it  off  and  stuffed  it  into  his  vest  pocket, 
after  the  manner  of  man.     And  then  he  'phoned  for  his  cab. 

At  the  station  he  captured  Miss  Lantry  out  of  the  gadding 
mob  at  eight  thirty-two. 

"We  mustn't  keep  mamma  and  the  others  waiting,"  said 
she. 

"To  Wallack's  Theatre  as  fast  as  you  can  drive!"  said 
Richard  loyally. 

They  whirled  up  Forty-second  to  Broadway,  and  then  down 
the  white-starred  lane  that  leads  from  the  soft  meadows  of 
sunset  to  the  rocky  hills  of  morning. 


130  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

At  Thirty-tourth  Street  young  Richard  quickly  thrust  up 
the  trap  and  ordered  the  cabman  to  stop. 

"I've  dropped  a  ring,"  he  apologized,  as  he  chmbed  out. 
**It  was  my  mother's,  and  I'd  hate  to  lose  it.  I  won't  detain 
you  a  minute — I  saw  where  it  fell." 

In  less  than  a  minute  he  was  back  in  the  cab  with  the  ring. 

But  within  that  minute  a  crosstown  car  had  stopped  di- 
rectly in  front  of  the  cab.  The  cabman  tried  to  pass  to  the 
left,  but  a  hea\y  express  wagon  cut  him  off.  He  tried  the 
right,  and  had  to  back  away  from  a  furniture  van  that  had  no 
business  to  be  there.  He  tried  to  back  out,  but  dropped  his 
reins  and  swore  dutifully.  He  was  blockaded  in  a  tangled 
mess  of  vehicles  and  horses. 

One  of  those  street  blockades  had  occurred  that  sometimes 
tie  up  commerce  and  movement  quite  suddenly  in  the  big  city. 

"Why  don't  you  drive  on?"  said  Miss  Lantry,  impa- 
tiently.    "We'll  be  late." 

Richard  stood  up  in  the  cab  and  looked  around.  He  saw 
a  congested  flood  of  wagons,  trucks,  cabs,  vans,  and  street 
cars  filling  the  vast  space  where  Broadway,  Sixth  Avenue, 
and  Thirty-fourth  Street  cross  one  another  as  a  twenty-six 
inch  maiden  fills  her  twenty-two  inch  girdle.  And  still  from 
all  the  cross  streets  they  were  hurrying  and  rattling  toward 
the  converging  point  at  full  speed,  and  hurling  themselves 
into  the  struggling  mass,  locking  wheels  and  adding  their 
drivers'  imprecations  to  the  clamor.  The  entire  traffic  of 
Manhattan  seemed  to  have  jammed  itself  around  them. 
The  oldest  New  Yorker  among  the  thousands  of  spectators 
that  lined  the  sidewalks  had  not  witnessed  a  street  blockade 
of  the  proportions  of  this  one. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Richard,  as  he  resumed  his  seat, 
"but  it  looks  as  if  we  are  stuck.  They  won't  get  this  jumble 
loosened  up  in  an  hour.  It  was  my  fault.  E  I  hadn't 
dropped  the  ring  we " 

"Let  me  see  the  ring,"  said  Miss  Lantry.  "Now  that  it 
can't  be  helped,  I  don't  care.  I  think  theatres  are  stupid, 
anyway. " 


MAMMON  AND  THE  ARCHER  131 

At  11  o'clock  that  night  somebody  tapped  hghtly  on  An- 
thony Rockwall's  door. 

"Come  in,"  shouted  Anthony,  who  was  in  a  red  dressing- 
gown,  reading  a  book  of  piratical  adventures. 

Somebody  was  Aunt  Ellen,  looking  like  a  gray-haired  angel 
that  had  been  left  on  earth  by  mistake. 

*' They 're  engaged,  Anthony,"  she  said,  softly.  "She  has 
promised  to  marry  our  Richard.  On  their  way  to  the  theatre 
there  was  a  street  blockade,  and  it  was  two  hours  before  their 
cab  could  get  out  of  it. 

"And  oh,  brother  Anthony,  don't  ever  boast  of  the  power 
of  money  again.  A  little  emblem  of  true  love— a  little  ring 
that  symbolized  unending  and  unmercenary  affection — was 
the  cause  of  our  Richard  finding  his  happiness.  He  dropped 
it  in  the  street,  and  got  out  to  recover  it.  And  before  they 
could  continue  the  blockade  occurred.  He  spoke  to  his  love 
and  won  her  there  while  the  cab  was  hemmed  in.  Money  is 
dross  compared  with  true  love,  Anthony." 

"All  right,"  said  old  Anthony.  "I'm  glad  the  boy  has 
got  what  he  wanted.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  spare  any  ex- 
pense in  the  matter  if " 

"But,  brother  Anthony,  what  good  could  your  money  have 
done.^" 

"Sister,"  said  Anthony  Rockwall.  "I've  got  my  pirate 
in  a  devil  of  a  scrape.  His  ship  has  just  been  scuttled,  and 
he's  too  good  a  judge  of  the  value  of  money  to  let  drown.  I 
wish  you  would  let  me  go  on  with  this  chapter." 

The  story  should  end  here.  I  wish  it  would  as  heartily 
as  you  who  read  it  wish  it  did.  But  we  must  go  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  well  for  truth. 

The  next  day  a  person  with  red  hands  and  a  blue  polka- 
dot  necktie,  who  called  himself  Kelly,  called  at  Anthony 
Rockwall's  house,  and  was  at  once  received  in  the  library. 
"Well,"  said  Anthony,  reaching  for  his  cheque-book, 
'*it  was  a  good  bihn'  of  soap.  Let's  see— you  had  $5,000  in 
cash." 

"I  paid  out  $300  more  of  my  own,"  said  Kelly.     "I  had 


132  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

to  go  a  little  above  the  estimate.  I  got  the  express  wagons 
and  cabs  mostly  for  $5;  but  the  trucks  and  two-horse  teams 
mostly  raised  me  to  $10.  The  motormen  wanted  $10,  and 
some  of  the  loaded  teams  $20.  The  cops  struck  me  hardest 
— $50  I  paid  two,  and  the  rest  $20  and  $25.  But  didn't  it 
work  beautiful,  Mr.  Rockwall.^  I'm  glad  William  A.  Brady 
wasn't  onto  that  little  outdoor  vehicle  mob  scene.  I 
wouldn't  want  Wilham  to  break  his  heart  with  jealousy, 
And  never  a  rehearsal,  either!  The  boys  was  on  time  to  the 
fraction  of  a  second.  It  was  two  hours  before  a  snake  could 
get  below  Greeley's  statue. " 

"Thirteen  hundred — there  you  are,  Kelly,"  said  Anthony, 
tearing  off  a  check.  "Your  thousand,  and  the  $300  you  were 
out.     You  don't  despise  money,  do  you,  Kelly?" 

"Me?"  said  Kelly.  "I  can  lick  the  man  that  invented 
poverty." 

Anthony  called  Kelly  when  he  was  at  the  door. 

"You  didn't  notice,"  said  he,  "anywhere  in  the  tie-up, 
a  kind  of  a  fat  boy  without  any  clothes  on  shooting  arrows 
around  with  a  bow,  did  you?  " 

"Why,  no,"  said  Kelly,  mystified.  "I  didn't.  If  he  was 
like  you  say,  maybe  the  cops  pinched  him  before  I  got  there." 

"I  thought  the  little  rascal  wouldn't  be  on  hand,"  chuckled 
Anthony.     "Good-by,  Kelly." 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

From  The  Four  Million.  First  published  in  McClure's  Magazine, 
A.ugust,  1905.  Two  months  later  O.  Henrj^  built  another  indictment. 
The  Guilty  Party,  on  the  framework  of  An  Unfinished  Story;  but  the 
latter  maintains  its  supremacy.  In  the  plebiscite  held  by  The  Book- 
man, June,  1914,  in  which  ten  persons  voted  independently  on  the 
ten  best  stories  by  O.  Henry,  An  Unfinished  Story  led  with  seven 
votes,  A  Municipal  Report  coming  next  with  six  votes.  Then 
followed  A  Lickpenny  Lover,  The  Furnished  Room,  and  The  Gift  of 
the  Magi,  each  with  four  votes;  Mammon  and  the  Archer  and  Let  Me 
Feel  Your  Pulse,  each  with  two  votes.  One  of  the  finest  touches 
in  the  story  is  the  sudden  and  unexpected  emergence  of  General 
Kitchener.  O.  Henry's  tribute  to  his  eyes  was  recalled  by  a  London 
paper  at  the  time  of  Lord  Kitchener's  death.  "They  strike  you," 
says  Harold  Begbie  in  Kitchener:  Organizer  of  Victory,  "with  a  kind  of 
clutching  terror;  you  look  at  them,  try  to  say  something,  look  away, 
and  then,  trying  to  speak,  find  your  eyes  returning  to  that  dreadful 
gaze,  and  once  more  choke  with  silence."  Dulcie  holds  her  own 
or  is  held  to  her  own  until  General  Kitchener  "  happens  to  be  looking 
the  other  way."  It  is  not  often  that  O.  Henry  expresses  loathing 
for  anybody.  It  is  worth  noting,  however,  that  the  three  most 
loathsome  characters  in  our  twenty-five  stories  are  pilloried  by  O. 
Henry  for  the  same  offence,  their  treatment  of  women.  Compare 
Mrs.  Purdy  in  TJie  Furnished  Room,  Piggy  in  this  story,  and  Major 
Caswell  in  A  Municipal  Report.  Piggy,  the  "connoisseur  in  star- 
vation," finds  his  prey  only  because  there  are  men  who  hire  working- 
girls  for  five  or  six  dollars  a  week.  It  is  for  these  employers  that  O. 
Henry  reserves  his  terminal  lightning.  If  satire  is  to  humor  as 
corporal  punishment  is  to  moral  suasion,  this  story  hints  the  gallows. 

We  no  longer  groan  and  heap  ashes  upon  our  heads  when 
the  flames  of  Tophet  are  mentioned.  For,  even  the  preachers 
have  begun  to  tell  us  that  God  is  radium,  or  ether  or  some 

133 


134  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

scientific  compound,  and  that  the  worst  we  wicked  ones  may 
expect  is  a  chemical  reaction.  This  is  a  pleasing  hypothesis; 
but  there  lingers  yet  some  of  the  old,  goodly  terror  of  ortho- 
doxy. 

There  are  but  two  subjects  upon  which  one  may  discourse 
with  a  free  imagination,  and  without  the  possibility  of  being 
controverted.  You  may  talk  of  your  dreams;  and  you  may 
tell  what  you  heard  a  parrot  say.  Both  Morpheus  and  the 
bird  are  incompetent  witnesses;  and  your  listener  dare  not 
attack  your  recital.  The  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision,  then, 
shall  furnish  my  theme — chosen  with  apologies  and  regrets 
instead  of  the  more  limited  field  of  pretty  Polly's  small  talk. 

I  had  a  dream  that  was  so  far  removed  from  the  higher 
criticism  that  it  had  to  do  with  the  ancient,  respectable,  and 
lamented  bar-of- judgment  theory. 

Gabriel  had  played  his  trump;  and  those  of  us  who  could 
not  follow  suit  were  arraigned  for  examination.  I  noticed 
at  one  side  a  gathering  of  professional  bondsmen  in  solemn 
black  and  collars  that  buttoned  behind;  but  it  seemed  there 
was  some  trouble  about  their  real  estate  titles;  and  they  did 
not  appear  to  be  getting  any  of  us  out. 

A  fly  cop — an  angel  policeman — flew  over  to  me  and  took 
me  by  the  left  wing.  Near  at  hand  was  a  group  of  very  pros- 
perous-looking spirits  arraigned  for  judgment. 

"Do  you  belong  with  that  bunch?"  the  policeman  asked. 

"Who  are  they?"  was  my  answer. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "they  are " 

But  this  irrelevant  stuff  is  taking  up  space  that  the  story 
should  occupy. 

Dulcie  worked  in  a  department  store.  She  sold  Hamburg 
edging,  or  stuffed  peppers,  or  automobiles,  or  other  little 
trinkets  such  as  they  keep  in  department  stores.  Of  what 
she  earned,  Dulcie  received  six  dollars  per  week.  The  re- 
mainder was  credited  to  her  and  debited  to  somebody  else's 

account  in  the  ledger  kept  by  G Oh,  primal  energy, 

you  say,  Reverend  Doctor Well  then,  in  the  Ledger  of 

Primal  Energy. 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY  135 

During  her  first  year  in  the  store,  Dulcie  was  paid  five 
dollars  per  week.  It  would  be  instructive  to  know  how  she 
lived  on  that  amount.  Don't  care?  Very  well;  probably 
you  are  interested  in  larger  amounts.  Six  dollars  is  a  larger 
amount.  I  will  tell  you  how  she  lived  on  six  dollars  per 
week. 

One  afternoon  at  six,  when  Dulcie  was  sticking  her  hat- 
pin within  an  eighth  of  an  inch  of  her  medulla  oblongata, 
she  said  to  her  chum,  Sadie — the  girl  that  waits  on  you 
with  her  left  side: 

"Say,  Sade,  I  made  a  date  for  dinner  this  evening  with 

Piggy." 

"You  never  did!"  exclaimed  Sadie  admiringly.  "Well, 
ain't  you  the  lucky  one.^^  Piggy's  an  awful  swell;  and  he 
always  takes  a  girl  to  swell  places.  He  took  Blanche  up  to 
the  Hoffman  House  one  evening,  where  they  have  swell 
music,  and  you  see  a  lot  of  swells.  You'll  have  a  swell  time, 
Dulcie." 

Dulcie  hurried  homeward.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  and 
her  cheeks  showed  the  delicate  pink  of  life's — real  life's — 
approaching  dawn.  It  was  Friday;  and  she  had  fifty  cents 
left  of  her  last  week's  wages. 

The  streets  were  filled  w^ith  the  rush-hour  floods  of  people. 
The  electric  lights  of  Broadway  were  glowing — calling  moths 
from  miles,  from  leagues,  from  hundreds  of  leagues  out  of 
darkness  around  to  come  in  and  attend  the  singeing  school. 
Men  in  accurate  clothes,  with  faces  like  those  carved  on 
cherry  stones  by  the  old  salts  in  sailors'  homes,  turned  and 
stared  at  Dulcie  as  she  sped,  unheeding,  past  them.  Man- 
hattan, the  night-blooming  cereus,  was  beginning  to  unfold 
its  dead-white,  heavy-odored  petals. 

Dulcie  stopped  in  a  store  where  goods  were  cheap  and 
bought  an  imitation  lace  collar  with  her  fifty  cents.  That 
money  was  to  have  been  spent  otherwise — fifteen  cents  for 
supper,  ten  cents  for  breakfast,  ten  cents  for  lunch.  Another 
dime  was  to  be  added  to  her  small  store  of  savings;  and  five 
cents  was  to  be  squandered  for  licorice  drops — the  kind 


136  STORIES  FROM  0.  HENRY 

that  made  your  cheek  look  Hke  the  toothache,  and  last  as 
long.  The  licorice  was  an  extravagance — almost  a  carouse — 
but  what  is  life  without  pleasures? 

Dulcie  lived  in  a  furnished  room.  There  is  this  difference 
between  a  furnished  room  and  a  boarding-house.  In  a 
furnished  room,  other  people  do  not  know  it  when  you  go 
hungry. 

Dulcie  went  up  to  her  room — the  third  floor  back  in  a  West 
Side  broT\Tistone-front.  She  lit  the  gas.  Scientists  tell  us 
that  the  diamond  is  the  hardest  substance  knowTi.  Their 
mistake.  Landladies  know  of  a  compound  beside  which 
the  diamond  is  as  putty. 

They  pack  it  in  the  tips  of  gas-burners;  and  one  may  stand 
on  a  chair  and  dig  at  it  in  vain  until  one's  fingers  are  pink 
and  bruised.  A  hairpin  w411  not  remove  it;  therefore  let  us 
call  it  immovable. 

So  Dulcie  lit  the  gas.  In  its  one-fourth-candle-power 
glow  we  will  observe  the  room. 

Couch-bed,  dressf^r,  table,  washstand,  chair — of  this  mud^ 
the  landlady  was  guilty.  The  rest  was  Dulcie's.  On  the 
dresser  were  her  treasures — a  gilt  china  vase  presented  to  her 
by  Sadie,  a  calendar  issued  by  a  pickle  works,  a  book  on  the 
divination  of  dreams,  some  rice  powder  in  a  glass  dish,  and 
a  cluster  of  artificial  cherries  tied  with  a  pink  ribbon. 

Against  the  wrinkly  mirror  stood  pictures  of  General 
Kitchener,  William  Muldoon,  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 
and  Benvenuto  Cellini.  Against  one  wall  was  a  plaster  of 
Paris  plaque  of  an  O'Callahan  in  a  Roman  helmet.  Near 
it  was  a  violent  oleograph  of  a  lemon-colored  child  as- 
saulting an  inflammatory  butterfly.  This  was  Dulcie's 
final  judgment  in  art;  but  it  had  never  been  upset.  Her  rest 
had  never  been  disturbed  by  whispers  of  stolen  copes;  no 
critic  had  elevated  his  eyebrows  at  her  infantile  entomologist. 

Piggy  was  to  call  for  her  at  seven.  While  she  swiftly 
makes  ready,  let  us  discreetly  face  the  other  way  and  gossip, 

For  the  room,  Dulcie  paid  two  dollars  per  week.  On 
week-days  her  breakfast  cost  ten  cents;  she  made  coffee 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY  137 

and  cooked  an  egg  over  the  gaslight  while  she  was  dressing. 
On  Sunday  mornings  she  feasted  royally  on  veal  chops  and 
pineapple  fritters  at  "Billy's"  restaurant,  at  a  cost  of  twenty- 
five  cents — and  tipped  the  waitress  ten  cents.  New  York 
presents  so  many  temptations  for  one  to  run  into  ex- 
travagance. She  had  her  lunches  in  the  department-store 
restaurant  at  a  cost  of  sixty  cents  for  the  week;  dinners  were 
$1.05.  The  evening  papers — show  me  a  New  Yorker  going 
without  his  daily  paper! — came  to  six  cents;  and  two  Sunday 
papers — one  for  the  personal  column  and  the  other  to  read — 
were  ten  cents.  The  total  amounts  to  $4.76.  Now,  one 
has  to  buy  clothes,  and 

I  give  it  up.  I  hear  of  wonderful  bargains  in  fabrics,  and 
of  miracles  performed  with  needle  and  thread;  but  I  am  in 
doubt.  I  hold  my  pen  poised  in  vain  when  I  would  add  to 
Dulcie's  life  some  of  those  joys  that  belong  to  woman  by 
virtue  of  all  the  unwritten,  sacred,  natural,  inactive 
ordinances  of  the  equity  of  heaven.  Twice  she  had  been  to 
Coney  Island  and  had  ridden  the  hobby-horses.  'Tis  a 
weary  thing  to  count  your  pleasures  by  summers  instead 
of  by  hours. 

Piggy  needs  but  a  word.  When  the  girls  named  him,  an 
undeserving  stigma  was  cast  upon  the  noble  family  of  swine. 
The  words-of-three-letters  lesson  in  the  old  blue  spelling 
book  begins  with  Piggy's  biography.  He  was  fat;  he  had 
the  soul  of  a  rat,  the  habits  of  a  bat,  and  the  magnanimity 
of  a  cat.  ...  He  wore  expensive  clothes;  and  was  a 
connoisseur  in  starvation.  He  could  look  at  a  shop-girl 
and  tell  you  to  an  hour  how  long  it  had  been  since  she  had 
eaten  anything  more  nourishing  than  marshmallows  and  tea. 
He  hung  about  the  shopping  districts,  and  prowled  around 
in  department  stores  with  his  invitations  to  dinner.  Men 
who  escort  dogs  upon  the  streets  at  the  end  of  a  string  look 
down  upon  him.  He  is  a  type;  I  can  dwell  upon  him  no 
longer;  my  pen  is  not  the  kind  intended  for  him;  I  am  no 
carpenter. 

At  ten  minutes  to  seven  Dulcie  was  ready.     She  looked 


138  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

at  herseK  in  the  wrinkly  mirror.  The  reflection  was  satis* 
factory.  The  dark  blue  dress,  fitting  without  a  WTinkle, 
the  hat  with  its  jaunty  black  feather,  the  but-slightly-soiled 
gloves — all  representing  self-denial,  even  of  food  itself — 
were  vastly  becoming. 

Dulcie  forgot  everything  else  for  a  moment  except  that  she 
was  beautiful,  and  that  life  was  about  to  lift  a  corner  of  its 
mysterious  veil  for  her  to  observe  its  wonders.  No  gentle^ 
man  had  ever  asked  her  out  before.  Now  she  was  going 
for  a  brief  moment  into  the  glitter  and  exalted  show. 

The  girls  said  that  Piggy  was  a  "spender."  There  would 
be  a  grand  dinner,  and  music,  and  splendidly  dressed  ladies 
to  look  at,  and  things  to  eat  that  strangely  twisted  the 
girl's  jaws  when  they  tried  to  tell  about  them.  No  doubt 
she  would  be  asked  out  again. 

There  was  a  blue  pongee  suit  in  a  window  that  she  knew — 
by  saving  twenty  cents  a  week  instead  of  ten,  in — let's  see 
Oh,  it  would  run  into  years!  But  there  was  a  second- 
hand store  in  Seventh  Avenue  where 


Somebody  knocked  at  the  door.     Dulcie  opened  it.     The 
landlady  stood  there  with  a  spurious  smile,  sniflfing  for  cook 
ing  by  stolen  gas. 

"A  gentleman's  do^Tistairs  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "Name 
is  Mr.  Wiggins." 

By  such  epithet  was  Piggy  knoTvm  to  unfortunate  ones 
who  had  to  take  him  seriously. 

Dulcie  turned  to  the  dresser  to  get  her  handkerchief; 
and  then  she  stopped  still,  and  bit  her  under-lip  hard.  While 
looking  in  her  mirror  she  had  seen  fairyland  and  herself, 
a  princess,  just  awakening  from  a  long  slumber.  She  had 
forgotten  one  that  was  watching  her  with  sad,  beautiful, 
stern  eyes — the  only  one  there  was  to  approve  or  condemn 
what  she  did.  Straight  and  slender  and  tall,  with  a  look 
of  sorrowful  reproach  on  his  handsome,  melancholy  face. 
General  Kitchener  fixed  his  wonderful  eyes  on  her  out  of 
his  gilt  photograph  frame  on  the  dresser. 

Dulcie  turned  like  an  automatic  doll   to   the  landlady. 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY  139 

"Tell  him  I  can't  go,"  she  said  dully.  "Tell  him  I'm 
sick,  or  something.     Tell  him  I'm  not  going  out." 

After  the  door  was  closed  and  locked,  Dulcie  fell  upon 
her  bed,  crushing  her  black  tip,  and  cried  for  ten  minutes. 
General  Kitchener  was  her  only  friend.  He  was  Dulcie 's 
ideal  of  a  gallant  knight.  He  looked  as  if  he  might  have  a 
secret  sorrow,  and  his  wonderful  moustache  was  a  dream, 
and  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  that  stern  yet  tender  look  in 
his  eyes.  She  used  to  have  little  fancies  that  he  would  call 
at  the  house  sometime,  and  ask  for  her,  with  his  sword 
clanking  against  his  high  boots.  Once,  when  a  boy  was 
rattling  a  piece  of  chain  against  a  lamp-post  she  had  opened 
the  window  and  looked  out.  But  there  was  no  use.  She 
knew  that  General  Kitchener  w^as  away  over  in  Japan, 
leading  his  army  against  the  savage  Turks;  and  he  would 
never  step  out  of  his  gilt  frame  for  her.  Yet  one  look  from 
him  had  vanquished  Piggy  that  night.     Yes,  for  that  night. 

When  her  cry  was  over  Dulcie  got  up  and  took  off  her  best 
dress,  and  put  on  her  old  blue  kimono.  She  wanted  no  din- 
ner. She  sang  two  verses  of  "Sammy."  Then  she  became 
intensely  interested  in  a  little  red  speck  on  the  side  of  her 
nose.  And  after  that  was  attended  to,  she  drew  up  a  chair  to 
the  rickety  table,  and  told  her  fortune  with  an  old  deck  of 
cards. 

"The  horrid,  impudent  thing!"  she  said  aloud.  "And 
I  never  gave  him  a  word  or  a  look  to  make  him  think  it!" 

At  nine  o'clock  Dulcie  took  a  tin  box  of  crackers  and  a 
little  pot  of  raspberry  jam  out  of  her  trunk,  and  had  a  feast. 
She  offered  General  Kitchener  some  jam  on  a  cracker;  but 
he  only  looked  at  her  as  the  sphinx  would  have  looked  at  a 
butterfly — if  there  are  butterflies  in  the  desert. 

"Don't  eat  it  if  you  don't  want  to,"  said  Dulcie.  "And 
don't  put  on  so  many  airs  and  scold  so  with  your  eyes.  I 
wonder  if  you'd  be  so  superior  and  snippy  if  you  had  to  live 
on  six  dollars  a  week." 

It  was  not  a  good  sign  for  Dulcie  to  be  rude  to  General 
Kitchener.     And  then  she  turned  Benvenuto  CelHni  face 


140  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

downward  with  a  severe  gesture.  But  that  was  not  inex- 
cusable; for  she  had  always  thought  he  was  Henry  VHI, 
and  she  did  not  approve  of  him. 

At  half-past  nine  Dulcie  took  a  last  look  at  the  pictures 
on  the  dresser,  turned  out  the  light,  and  skipped  into  bed. 
It's  an  awful  thing  to  go  to  bed  with  a  good-night  look  at 
General  Kitchener,  William  Muldoon,  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough, and  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

This  story  really  doesn't  get  anj^here  at  all.  The  rest 
of  it  comes  later — sometime  when  Piggy  asks  Dulcie  again 
to  dine  with  him,  and  she  is  feeling  lonelier  than  usual,  and 
General  Kitchener  happens  to  be  looking  the  other  way; 
and   then 

As  I  said  before,  I  dreamed  that  I  was  standing  near  a 
crowd  of  prosperous-looking  angels,  and  a  policeman  took 
me  by  the  wing  and  asked  if  I  belonged  with  them. 

"Who  are  they.^"  I  asked. 

"\Miy,"  said  he,  "they  are  the  men  who  hired  working- 
girls,  and  paid  'em  five  or  six  dollars  a  week  to  live  on.  Are 
you  one  of  the  bunch?" 

"Not  on  your  immortality,"  said  I.  "I'm  only  the  fellow 
that  set  fire  to  an  orphan  asylum,  and  murdered  a  blind 
man  for  his  pennies." 


THE  LAST  LEAF 

From  The  Trimmed  Lamp.  First  published  in  The  World,  October 
15,  1905.  In  Bruno's  Weeklij  for  December  11,  1915,  "edited  by 
Guido  Bruno  in  his  Garret  on  Washington  Square,"  the  editor  says: 
"There  is  one  man  in  American  letters,  the  late  O.  Henry,  who  knew 
Greenwich  Village,  who  knew  it  as  it  was  and  is,  and  who  never 
hesitated  to  show  m  the  most  humorous  way  that  it  is  not  what 
newspapers  and  magazines  and  even  some  of  the  people  down  there 
themselves  are  trying  to  make  you  believe  that  it  is.  .  .  .  And 
The  Last  Leaf  is  the  very  best  story  that  he  ever  wrote  and  is  the 
most  characteristic  of  his  personality  and  of  his  literary  style."  The 
story  is  at  least  a  good  illustration  of  the  original  way  in  which  O. 
Henry  used  his  sources.  He  is  reported  to  have  said,  as  he  looked  at 
a  leaf -covered  brick  wall  in  Greenwich  Village:  "There  is  a  story 
there,  a  story  that  suggests  an  episode  in  Murger's  Vw  de  Boheme, 
where  the  grisette  at  night  waters  the  flowers  to  keep  them  alive. 
The  lifetime  of  the  flowers,  you  remember,  was  to  be  the  lifetime  of 
that  transient  love."  Murger  narrates  the  incident  in  Chapter  VI: 
*T  will  remam  with  you,"  Musette  says  to  Marcel,  "until  the 
flowers  that  you  have  just  given  me  shall  fade."  Unobserved  by 
Marcel  she  slips  out  every  night  and  waters  the  flowers  so  that  the 
liaison  is  prolonged  fifteen  days  instead  of  the  expected  two  days. 
But  in  motif  there  is  hardly  more  resemblance  here  than  in  the 
Slavic  and  Hungarian  folk-songs  in  which  the  lover  secretly  feeds 
wheat  to  Chanticleer  that  he  may  delay  his  crowing,  that  being  the 
signal  for  leave-taking.  O.  Henry,  at  any  rate,  has  so  improved  the 
setting  and  so  elevated  the  motif  as  to  make  the  resemblance  hardly 
recognizable.  Is  it  not  possible  also  that  Oliver  WendeU  Hohnes's 
poem  furnished  more  than  the  mere  title  of  the  story?  "The  fun  in 
Hohnes,"  says  F.  H.  Underwood  (m  Good  Words,  volume  28),  "is 
always  jostling  the  pathos.  .  .  .  The  pathos  of  The  Last 
Leaf  is  all  the  more  surprising  in  connection  with  the  queer 
humor  in  the  description  of  the  old  man  who  is  the  subject  of  the 
poem." 

141 


142  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

In  a  little  district  west  of  Washington  Square  the  streets 
have  run  crazy  and  broken  themselves  into  small  strips 
called  "places."  These  *' places"  make  strange  angles  and 
curves.  One  street  crosses  itself  a  time  or  two.  An  artist 
once  discovered  a  valuable  possibility  in  this  street.  Suppose 
a  collector  with  a  bill  for  paints,  paper,  and  canvas  should, 
in  traversing  this  route,  suddenly  meet  himseK  coming  back, 
without  a  cent  having  been  paid  on  account! 

So,  to  quaint  old  Greenwich  Village  the  art  people  soon 
came  prowling,  hunting  for  north  windows  and  eighteenth- 
century  gables  and  Dutch  attics  and  low  rents.  Then  they 
imported  some  pewter  mugs  and  a  chafing  dish  or  two  from 
Sixth  Avenue,  and  became  a  ''colony." 

At  the  top  of  a  squatty,  three-story  brick  Sue  and  Johnsy 
had  their  studio.  "Johnsy"  was  familiar  for  Joanna.  One 
was  from  INIaine;  the  other  from  California.  They  had  met 
at  the  table  dliote  of  an  Eighth  Street  "Delmonico's,"  and 
found  their  tastes  in  art,  chicory  salad,  and  bishop  sleeves  so 
congenial  that  the  joint  studio  resulted. 

That  was  in  May.  In  November  a  cold,  unseen  stranger, 
whom  the  doctors  called  Pneumonia,  stalked  about  the  colony, 
touching  one  here  and  there  with  his  icy  fingers.  Over  on 
the  East  Side  this  ravager  strode  boldly,  smiting  his  victims 
by  scores,  but  his  feet  trod  slowly  through  the  maze  of  the 
narrow  and  moss-grown  "places." 

Mr.  Pneumonia  was  not  what  you  w  ould  call  a  chivalric  old 
gentleman.  A  mite  of  a  little  woman  with  blood  thinned  by 
California  zephyrs  was  hardly  fair  game  for  the  red-fisted, 
short-breathed  old  duffer.  But  Johnsy  he  smote ;  and  she  lay, 
scarcely  moving,  on  her  painted  iron  bedstead,  looking 
through  the  small  Dutch  window-panes  at  the  blank  side  of 
the  next  brick  house. 

One  morning  the  busy  cioctor  invited  Sue  into  the  hallway 
with  a  shaggy,  gray  eyebrow. 

"She  has  one  chance  in — let  as  say,  ten,"  he  said,  as  he 
shook  down  the  mercury  in  his  clinical  thermometer.  "And 
that  chance  is  for  her  to  want  to  live.     This  way  people  have 


THE  LAST  LEAF  143 

of  lining-up  on  the  side  of  the  undertaker  makes  the  entire 
pharmacopeia  look  silly.  Your  little  lady  has  made  up  her 
mind  that  she's  not  going  to  get  well.  Has  she  anything  on 
her  mind?" 

"She — she  wanted  to  paint  the  Bay  of  Naples  some  day," 
said  Sue. 

"Paint? — bosh!  Has  she  anything  on  her  mind  worth 
thinking  about  twice — a  man,  for  instance?  " 

"A  man?"  said  Sue,  with  a  jew's-harp  twang  in  her  voice. 
"Is  a  man  worth — but,  no,  doctor;  there  is  nothing  of  the 
kind." 

"Well,  it  is  the  weakness,  then,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  will 
do  all  that  science,  so  far  as  it  may  filter  through  my  efforts, 
can  accomplish.  But  whenever  my  patient  begins  to  count 
the  carriages  in  her  funeral  procession  I  subtract  50  per  cent, 
from  the  curative  power  of  medicines.  If  you  will  get  her  to 
ask  one  question  about  the  new  winter  styles  in  cloak  sleeves 
I  will  promise  you  a  one-in-five  chance  for  her,  instead  of  one 
in  ten." 

After  the  doctor  had  gone  Sue  went  into  the  workroom 
and  cried  a  Japanese  napkin  to  a  pulp.  Then  she  swaggered 
into  Johnsy's  room  with  her  drawing  board,  whistling 
ragtime. 

Johnsy  lay,  scarcely  making  a  ripple  under  the  bedclothes, 
dth  her  face  toward  the  window.  Sue  stopped  whisthng, 
thinking  she  was  asleep. 

She  arranged  her  board  and  began  a  pen-and-ink  drawing 
to  illustrate  a  magazine  story.  Young  artists  must  pave  their 
way  to  Art  by  drawing  pictures  for  magazine  stories  that 
young  authors  write  to  pave  their  way  to  Literature. 

As  Sue  was  sketching  a  pair  of  elegant  horse-show  riding 
trousers  and  a  monocle  on  the  figure  of  the  hero,  an  Idaho 
cowboy,  she  heard  a  low  sound,  several  times  repeated.  She 
went  quickly  to  the  bedside. 

Johnsy's  eyes  were  open  wide.  She  was  looking  out  the 
window  and  counting — counting  backward. 

"Twelve,"  she  said,  and  a  Httle  later  "eleven'*;  and  then 


144  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"ten,"  and  "nine";  and  then  "eight"  and  "seven,"  almost 
together. 

Sue  looked  solicitously  out  of  the  window.  What  was  there 
to  count  .'^  There  was  only  a  bare,  dreary  yard  to  be  seen, 
and  the  blank  side  of  the  brick  house  twenty  feet  away.  An 
old,  old  ivy  vine,  gnarled  and  decayed  at  the  roots,  climbed 
half  way  up  the  brick  wall.  The  cold  breath  of  autumn  had 
stricken  its  leaves  from  the  vine  until  its  skeleton  branches 
clung,  almost  bare,  to  the  crumbling  bricks. 

"AVhat  is  it,  dear?"  asked  Sue. 

"Six,"  said  Johnsy,  in  almost  a  whisper.  "They're  falling 
faster  now.  Three  days  ago  there  were  almost  a  hundred. 
It  made  my  head  ache  to  count  them.  But  now  it's  easy. 
There  goes  another  one.     There  are  only  five  left  now." 

"Five  what,  dear.     Tell  your  Sudie." 

"  Leaves.  On  the  ivy  vine.  WTien  the  last  one  falls  I  must 
go,  too.  I've  known  that  for  three  days.  Didn't  the  doctor 
tell  you?" 

"Oh,  I  never  heard  of  such  nonsense,"  complained  Sue, 
wdth  magnificent  scorn.  "TVTiat  have  old  i\'y  leaves  to  do 
with  your  getting  well?  And  you  used  to  love  that  vine  so, 
you  naughty  girl.  Don't  be  a  goosey.  \Miy,  the  doctor 
told  me  this  morning  that  your  chances  for  getting  well  real 
soon  were — let's  see  exactly  what  he  said — he  said  the  chances 
were  ten  to  one !  WTiy,  that's  almost  as  good  a  chance  as  we 
have  in  New  York  when  we  ride  on  the  street  cars  or  walk 
past  a  new  building.  Try  to  take  some  broth  now,  and  let 
Sudie  go  back  to  her  drawing,  so  she  can  sell  the  editor  man 
with  it,  and  buy  port  wine  for  her  sick  child,  and  pork  chops 
for  her  greedy  self." 

"You  needn't  get  any  more  wine,"  said  Johnsy,  keeping 
her  eyes  fixed  out  the  window.  "There  goes  another.  No, 
I  don't  want  any  broth.  That  leaves  just  four.  I  want  to 
see  the  last  one  fall  before  it  gets  dark.     Then  I'll  go,  too." 

"Johnsy,  dear,"  said  Sue,  bending  over  her,  "will  you  prom- 
ise me  to  keep  your  eyes  closed,  and  not  look  out  the  win- 
dow until  I  am  done  working?     I  must  hand  those  drawings 


THE  LAST  LEAF  145 

in  by  to-morrow.  I  need  the  light,  or  I  would  draw  the 
shade  down.'* 

"Couldn't  you  draw  in  the  other  room?"  asked  Johnsy 
coldly. 

"I'd  rather  be  here  by  you,"  said  Sue.  "Besides,  I  don't 
want  you  to  keep  looking  at  those  silly  ivy  leaves." 

"Tell  me  as  soon  as  you  have  finished,"  said  Johnsy,  clos- 
ing her  eyes,  and  lying  white  and  still  as  a  fallen  statue,  "be- 
cause I  want  to  see  the  last  one  fall.  I'm  tired  of  waiting. 
I'm  tired  of  thinking.  I  want  to  turn  loose  my  hold  on  every- 
thing, and  go  sailing  down,  down,  just  like  one  of  those  poor, 
tired  leaves." 

"Try  to  sleep,"  said  Sue.  "I  must  call  Behrman  up  to  be 
my  model  for  the  old  hermit  miner.  I'll  not  be  gone  a  minute. 
Don't  try  to  move  till  I  come  back." 

Old  Behrman  was  a  painter  who  lived  on  the  ground  floor 
beneath  them.  He  was  past  sixty  and  had  a  Michael 
Angelo's  Moses  beard  curling  down  from  the  head  of  a  satyr 
along  the  body  of  an  imp.  Behrman  was  a  failure  in  art. 
Forty  years  he  had  wielded  the  brush  without  getting  near 
enough  to  touch  the  hem  of  his  Mistress's  robe.  He  had  been 
always  about  to  paint  a  masterpiece,  but  had  painted  nothing 
except  now  and  then  a  daub  in  the  line  of  commerce  or  ad- 
vertising. He  earned  a  little  by  serving  as  a  model  to  those 
young  artists  in  the  colony  who  could  not  pay  the  price  of  a 
professional.  He  drank  gin  to  excess,  and  still  talked  of  his 
coming  masterpiece.  For  the  rest  he  was  a  fierce  little  old 
man,  who  scoffed  terribly  at  softness  in  any  one,  and  who 
regarded  himself  as  especial  mastiff -in-waiting  to  protect  the 
two  young  artists  in  the  studio  above. 

Sue  found  Behrman  smelling  strongly  of  juniper  berries  in 
his  dimly  lighted  den  below.  In  one  corner  was  a  blank  can- 
vas on  an  easel  that  had  been  waiting  there  for  twenty-five 
years  to  receive  the  first  line  of  the  masterpiece.  She  toxd 
him  of  Johnsy 's  fancy,  and  how  she  feared  she  would,  indeed, 
light  and  fragile  as  a  leaf  herself,  float  away  when  her  slight 
hold  upon  the  world  grew  weaker. 


146  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Old  Behrman,  with  his  red  eyes  plainly  streaming,  shouteci 
his  contempt  and  derision  for  such  idiotic  imaginings. 

"Vass!"  he  cried.  "Is  dere  people  in  de  world  mit  der 
foolishness  to  die  because  leafs  dey  drop  off  from  a  confounded 
vine?  I  haf  not  heard  of  such  a  thing.  No,  I  will  not  bose 
as  a  model  for  your  fool  hermit-dunderhead.  Vy  do  you  al- 
low dot  silly  pusiness  to  come  in  der  prain  of  her?  Ach,  dot 
poor  lettle  Miss  Johnsy.'* 

"She  is  very  ill  and  weak,"  said  Sue,  "and  the  fever  has 
left  her  mind  morbid  and  full  of  strange  fancies.  Very  well, 
Mr.  Behrman,  if  you  do  not  care  to  pose  for  me,  you  needn't. 
But  I  think  you  are  a  horrid  old — old  flibbertigibbet." 

"You  are  just  like  a  woman!"  yelled  Behrman.  "WTio 
said  I  vill  not  bose?  Go  on.  I  come  mit  you.  For  half  an 
hour  I  haf  peen  trying  to  say  dot  I  am  ready  to  bose.  Gottl 
dis  is  not  any  blace  in  which  one  so  goot  as  Miss  Yohnsy  shall 
lie  sick.  Some  day  I  vill  baint  a  masterpiece,  and  ve  shall  al) 
go  away.     Gott!  yes." 

Johnsy  was  sleeping  when  they  went  upstairs.  Sue  pulled 
the  shade  down  to  the  window-sill,  and  motioned  Behrman 
into  the  other  room.  In  there  they  peered  out  the  window 
fearfully  at  the  ivy  vine.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other  for 
a  moment  without  speaking.  A  persistent,  cold  rain  was 
falling,  mingled  with  snow.  Behrman,  in  his  old  blue  shirt, 
took  his  seat  as  the  hermit-miner  on  an  upturned  kettle  for  a 
rock. 

When  Sue  awoke  from  an  hour's  sleep  the  next  morning 
she  found  Johnsy  with  dull,  wide-open  eyes  staring  at  the 
drawn  green  shade. 

" Pull  it  up;  I  want  to  see,"  she  ordered,  in  a  whisper. 

Wearily  Sue  obeyed. 

But,  lo !  after  the  beating  rain  and  fierce  gusts  of  wind  that 
had  endured  through  the  livelong  night,  there  yet  stood  out 
against  the  brick  wall  one  ivy  leaf.  It  was  the  last  on  the 
vine.  Still  dark  green  near  its  stem,  but  with  its  serrated 
edges  tinted  with  the  yellow  of  dissolution  and  decay,  it  hung 
bravely  from  a  branch  some  twenty  feet  above  the  ground. 


THE  LAST  LEAF  147 

"It  is  the  last  one,"  said  Johnsy.  "I  thought  it  would 
surely  fall  during  the  night.  I  heard  the  wind.  It  will  fall 
to-day,  and  I  shall  die  at  the  same  time." 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  Sue,  leaning  her  worn  face  down  to  the 
pillow,  "think  of  me,  if  you  won't  think  of  yourself.  What 
would  I  do.^" 

But  Johnsy  did  not  answer.  The  lonesomest  thing  in  all 
the  world  is  a  soul  when  it  is  making  ready  to  go  on  its  mys- 
terious, far  journey.  The  fancy  seemed  to  possess  her  more 
strongly  as  one  by  one  the  ties  that  bound  her  to  friendship 
and  to  earth  were  loosed. 

The  day  wore  away,  and  even  through  the  twilight  they 
could  see  the  lone  ivy  leaf  clinging  to  its  stem  against  the  wall. 
And  then,  with  the  coming  of  the  night  the  north  wind  was 
again  loosed,  while  the  rain  still  beat  against  the  windows 
and  pattered  down  from  the  low  Dutch  eaves. 

When  it  was  light  enough  Johnsy,  the  merciless,  com- 
manded that  the  shade  be  raised. 

The  ivy  leaf  was  still  there. 

Johnsy  lay  for  a  long  time  looking  at  it.  And  then  she 
called  to  Sue,  who  was  stirring  her  chicken  broth  over  the  gas 
stove. 

"I've  been  a  bad  girl,  Sudie,"  said  Johnsy.  "Something 
has  made  that  last  leaf  stay  there  to  show  me  how  wicked  I 
was.  It  is  a  sin  to  want  to  die.  You  may  bring  me  a  little 
broth  now,  and  some  milk  with  a  little  port  in  it,  and — no; 
bring  me  a  hand-mirror  first,  and  then  pack  some  pillows 
about  me,  and  I  will  sit  up  and  watch  you  cook." 

An  hour  later  she  said. 

"Sudie,  Some  day  I  hope  to  paint  the  Bay  of  Naples." 

The  doctor  came  in  the  afternoon,  and  Sue  had  an  excuse 
to  go  into  the  hallway  as  he  left. 

"Even  chances,"  said  the  doctor,  taking  Sue's  thin,  shaking 
hand  in  his.  "With  good  nursing  you'll  win.  And  now  I 
must  see  another  case  I  have  downstairs.  Behrman,  his 
name  is — some  kind  of  an  artist,  I  believe  Pneumonia,  too. 
He  is  an  old,  weak  man,  and  the  attack  is  acute.     There  is  no 


148  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

hope  for  him;  but  he  goes  to  the  hospital  to-day  to  be  made 
more  comfortable." 

The  next  day  the  doctor  said  to  Sue :  "  She's  out  of  danger. 
You've  won.     Nutrition  and  care  now — that's  all." 

And  that  afternoon  Sue  came  to  the  bed  where  Johnsy  lay, 
contentedly  knitting  a  very  blue  and  very  useless  woolen 
shoulder  scarf,  and  put  one  arm  around  her,  pillows  and  all. 

*'I  have  something  to  tell  you,  white  mouse,"  she  said. 
*'Mr.  Behrman  died  of  pneumonia  to-day  in  the  hospital. 
He  was  ill  only  two  days.  The  janitor  found  him  on  the 
morning  of  the  first  day  in  his  room  doTvTistairs  helpless  with 
pain.  His  shoes  and  clothing  were  wet  through  and  icy  cold, 
They  couldn't  imagine  where  he  had  been  on  such  a  dreadful 
night.  And  then  they  found  a  lantern,  still  lighted,  and  a 
ladder  that  had  been  dragged  from  its  place,  and  some  scat- 
tered brushes,  and  a  palette  with  green  and  yellow  colors 
mixed  on  it,  and — look  out  the  window,  dear,  at  the  last  ivy 
leaf  on  the  wall.  Didn't  you  wonder  why  it  never  fluttered 
or  moved  when  the  wind  blew?  Ah,  darling,  it's  Behrman's 
masterpiece — he  painted  it  there  the  night  that  the  last  leaf 
feU." 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI 

From  The  Four  Million.  First  published  in  The  World,  December 
10,  1905.  "And  when  they  [the  magi]  were  come  into  the  house, 
they  saw  the  young  child  with  Mary,  his  mother,  and  fell  down,  and 
worshipped  him;  and  when  they  had  opened  their  treasures,  they 
presented  unto  him  gifts:  gold,  and  frankincense,  and  myrrh" 
{Matthew,  11,  11).  These  were  the  gifts  of  the  magi  but  their  gift 
was  love;  and  love  is  the  theme  of  this  perfect  little  Christmas  story. 
The  infant  Christ  could  make  no  use  of  gold  or  frankincense  or 
myrrh,  nor  could  Delia  and  Jim  make  use  of  the  combs  and  the 
chain.  But  the  love  that  prompted  the  giving  shines  all  the  brighter 
because  the  gifts  were,  in  a  utilitarian  sense,  egregious  misfits. 
*'That  the  gold  at  least,"  says  a  learned  commentator,  "would  be 
highly  serviceable  to  the  parents  in  their  unexpected  journey  to 
Egypt  and  during  their  stay  there — thus  much  at  least  admits  of  no 
dispute."  Perhaps  so.  But  read  the  famous  passage  once  more 
and  turn  again  to  O.  Henry's  story.  WTiich  interpretation  goes 
deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  incident?  Which  is  more  in  accord  with 
the  spirit  of  the  text?  Which  leaves  you  more  in  love  with  love? 
Notice  that  the  real  surprise  in  this  story  is  not  m  what  the  lovers 
do.  It  is  in  what  O.  Henry  says  about  what  they  do.  He  con- 
gratulates them.  They  acted  wisely.  But  all  this  is  told  us  at  the 
end.  The  author  has  thus  combined  in  a  single  paragraph  his 
terminal  surprise  and  the  explanatory  remarks  that  usually  come 
first.    See  Sqimring  the  Circle,  page  97. 

One  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents.  That  was  all.  And 
sixty  cents  of  it  was  in  pennies.  Pennies  saved  one  and  two 
at  a  time  by  bulldozing  the  grocer  and  the  vegetable  man 
and  the  butcher  until  one's  cheeks  burned  with  the  silent  im- 
putation of  parsimony  that  such  close  dealing  implied.  Three 
times  Delia  counted  it.  One  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents. 
And  the  next  day  would  be  Christmas. 

149 


150  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

There  was  clearly  nothing  to  do  but  flop  down  on  the 
shabby  little  couch  and  howl.  So  Delia  did  it.  Wliich  in- 
stigates the  moral  reflection  that  life  is  made  up  of  sobs, 
snifiles,  and  smiles,  with  sniffles  predominating. 

^yhile  the  mistress  of  the  home  is  gradually  subsiding  from 
the  first  stage  to  the  second,  take  a  look  at  the  home.  A  fur- 
nished flat  at  $8  per  week.  It  did  not  exactly  beggar  de- 
scription, but  it  certainly  had  that  word  on  the  lookout  for 
the  mendicancy  squad. 

In  the  vestibule  below  was  a  letter-box  into  which  no  letter 
would  go,  and  an  electric  button  from  which  no  mortal  finger 
could  coax  a  ring.  Also  appertaining  thereunto  was  a  card 
bearing  the  name  "Mr.  James  Dillingham  Young." 

The  "Dillingham"  had  been  flung  to  the  breeze  during  a 
former  period  of  prosperity  when  its  possessor  was  being  paid 
$30  per  week.  Now,  when  the  income  was  shrunk  to  $20, 
the  letters  of  "Dillingham"  looked  blurred,  as  though  they 
were  thinking  seriously  of  contracting  to  a  modest  and  un- 
assuming D.  But  whenever  Mr.  James  Dillingham  Young 
came  home  and  reached  his  flat  above  he  was  called  "Jim" 
and  greatly  hugged  by  Mrs.  James  Dillingham  Young,  al- 
ready introduced  to  you  as  Defla.     Which  is  all  very  good. 

Delia  finished  her  cry  and  attended  to  her  cheeks  with  the 
powder  rag.  She  stood  by  the  window  and  looked  out  dully 
at  a  gray  cat  walking  a  gray  fence  in  a  gray  backyard.  To- 
morrow would  be  Christmas  Day,  and  she  had  only  $1.87 
with  which  to  buy  Jim  a  present.  She  had  been  saving  every 
penny  she  could  for  months,  with  this  result.  Twenty  dollars 
a  week  doesn't  go  far.  Expenses  had  been  greater  than  she 
had  calculated.  They  always  are.  Only  $1.87  to  buy  a 
present  for  Jim.  Her  Jim.  Many  a  happy  hour  she  had  spent 
planning  for  something  nice  for  him.  Something  fine  and 
rare  and  sterling — something  just  a  little  bit  near  to  being 
worthy  of  the  honor  of  being  owned  by  Jim. 

There  was  a  pier-glass  between  the  windows  of  the  room. 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  a  pier-glass  in  an  $8  flat.  A  very  thin 
and  very  agile  person  may,  by  observing  his  reflection  in  a 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI  151 

rapid  sequence  of  longitudinal  strips,  obtain  a  fairly  accurate 
conception  of  his  looks.  Delia,  being  slender,  had  mastered 
the  art. 

Suddenly  she  whirled  from  the  window  and  stood  before 
the  glass.  Her  eyes  were  shining  brilliantly,  but  her  face 
had  lost  its  color  within  twenty  seconds.  Rapidly  she  pulled 
down  her  hair  and  let  it  fall  to  its  full  length. 

Now,  there  were  two  possessions  of  the  James  Dillingham 
Youngs  in  which  they  both  took  a  mighty  pride.  One  was 
Jim's  gold  watch  that  had  been  his  father's  and  his  grand- 
father's. The  other  was  Delia's  hair.  Had  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  lived  in  the  flat  across  the  airshaft,  Delia  would  have 
let  her  hair  hang  out  the  window  some  day  to  dry  just  to  de- 
preciate Her  Majesty's  jewels  and  gifts.  Had  King  Solomon 
been  the  janitor,  with  all  his  treasures  piled  up  in  the  base- 
ment, Jim  would  have  pulled  out  his  watch  every  time  he 
passed,  just  to  see  him  pluck  at  his  beard  from  envy. 

So  now  Delia's  beautiful  hair  fell  about  her,  rippling  and 
shining  like  a  cascade  of  bro^Ti  waters.  It  reached  below 
her  knee  and  made  itself  almost  a  garment  for  her.  And 
then  she  did  it  up  again  nervously  and  quickly.  Once  she 
faltered  for  a  minute  and  stood  still  while  a  tear  or  two 
splashed  on  the  worn  red  carpet. 

On  went  her  old  brown  jacket;  on  went  her  old  brown  hat. 
With  a  whirl  of  skirts  and  with  the  brilliant  sparkle  still  in 
her  eyes,  she  fluttered  out  the  door  and  down  the  stairs  to  the 
street. 

Where  she  stopped  the  sign  read:  "Mme.  Sofronie. 
Hair  Goods  of  All  Kinds."  One  flight  up  Delia  ran,  and 
collected  herself,  panting.  Madame,  large,  too  w^hite,  chilly, 
hardly  looked  the  "Sofronie." 

"Will  you  buy  my  hair?"  asked  Delia. 

"I  buy  hair,"  said  Madame.  "Take  yer  hat  off  and  let's 
have  a  sight  at  the  looks  of  it." 

Down  rippled  the  brown  cascade. 

"Twenty  dollars,"  said  Madame,  lifting  the  mass  with  a 
practised  hand. 


152  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"Give  it  to  me  quick,"  said  Delia. 

Oh,  and  the  next  two  hours  tripped  by  on  rosy  wings.  For- 
get the  hashed  metaphor.  She  was  ransacking  the  stores  for 
Jim's  present. 

She  found  it  at  last.  It  surely  had  been  made  for  Jim  and 
no  one  else.  There  was  no  other  like  it  in  any  of  the  stores, 
and  she  had  turned  all  of  them  inside  out.  It  was  a  platinum 
fob  chain  simple  and  chaste  in  design,  properly  proclaiming 
its  value  by  substance  alone  and  not  by  meretricious  orna- 
mentation— as  all  good  things  should  be.  It  was  even 
worthy  of  The  Watch.  As  soon  as  she  saw  it  she  knew  that 
it  must  be  Jim's.  It  was  like  him.  Quietness  and  value — 
the  description  applied  to  both.  Twenty-one  dollars  they 
took  from  her  for  it,  and  she  hurried  home  with  the  87  cents. 
With  that  chain  on  his  watch  Jim  might  be  properly  anxious 
about  the  time  in  any  company.  Grand  as  the  watch  was, 
he  sometimes  looked  at  it  on  the  sly  on  account  of  the  old 
leather  strap  that  he  used  in  place  of  a  chain. 

WTien  Delia  reached  home  her  intoxication  gave  way  a 
little  to  prudence  and  reason.  She  got  out  her  curlmg  irons 
and  lighted  the  gas  and  went  to  work  repairing  the  ravages 
made  by  generosity  added  to  love.  WTiich  is  always  a  tre- 
mendous task,  dear  friends — a  mammoth  task. 

Within  forty  minutes  her  head  was  covered  with  tiny,  close- 
lying  curls  that  made  her  look  wonderfully  like  a  truant 
schoolboy.  She  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  long, 
carefully,  and  critically. 

"If  Jim  doesn't  kill  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "before  he 
takes  a  second  look  at  me,  he'll  say  I  look  like  a  Coney  Island 
chorus  girl.  But  what  could  I  do — oh!  what  could  I  do  w^ith 
a  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents  .^" 

At  7  o'clock  the  coffee  was  made  and  the  frying-pan  was 
on  the  back  of  the  stove  hot  and  ready  to  cook  the  chops. 

Jim  was  never  late.  Delia  doubled  the  fob  chain  in  her 
hand  and  sat  on  the  corner  of  the  table  near  the  door  that  he 
always  entered.  Then  she  heard  his  step  on  the  stair  away 
down  on  the  first  flight,  and  she  turned  white  for  just  a  mo- 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI  153 

ment.  She  had  a  habit  of  saying  Uttle  silent  prayers  about  the 
simplest  everyday  things,  and  now  she  whispered:  "Please 
God,  make  him  think  I  am  still  pretty." 

The  door  opened  and  Jim  stepped  in  and  closed  it.  He 
looked  thin  and  serious.  Poor  fellow,  he  was  only  twenty- 
two — and  to  be  burdened  with  a  family!  He  needed  a  new 
overcoat  and  he  was  without  gloves. 

Jim  stopped  inside  the  door,  as  immovable  as  a  setter  at 
the  scent  of  quail.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Delia,  and  there 
was  an  expression  in  them  that  she  could  not  read,  and  it 
terrified  her.  It  was  not  anger,  nor  surprise,  nor  disapproval, 
nor  horror,  nor  any  of  the  sentiments  that  she  had  been  pre- 
pared for.  He  simply  stared  at  her  fixedly  with  that  peculiar 
expression  on  his  face. 

Delia  wriggled  off  the  table  and  went  for  him. 

"Jim,  darling,"  she  cried,  "don't  look  at  me  that  way.  I 
had  my  hair  cut  off  and  sold  it  because  I  couldn't  have  lived 
through  Christmas  without  giving  you  a  present.  It'll  grow 
out  again — ^you  won't  mind,  will  you.^^  I  just  had  to  do  it. 
My  hair  grows  awfully  fast.  Say  *  Merry  Christmas!'  Jim, 
and  let's  be  happy.  You  don't  know  what  a  nice — what  a 
beautiful,  nice  gift  I've  got  for  you." 

"You've  cut  off  your  hair.^^ "  asked  Jim,  laboriously,  as  if  he 
had  not  arrived  at  that  patent  fact  yet  even  after  the  hardest 
mental  labor. 

"Cut  it  off  and  sold  it,"  said  Delia.  "Don't  you  like  me 
just  as  well,  anyhow .^^     I'm  me  without  my  hair,  ain't  I?" 

Jim  looked  about  the  room  ciu*iously. 

"You  say  your  hair  is  gone.^"  he  said,  with  an  air  almost 
of  idiocy. 

"You  needn't  look  for  it,"  said  Delia.  "It's  sold,  I  tell 
you — sold  and  gone,  too.  It's  Christmas  Eve,  boy.  Be  good 
to  me,  for  it  went  for  you.  Maybe  the  hairs  of  my  head  were 
numbered,"  she  went  on  with  a  sudden  serious  sweetness, 
"but  nobody  could  ever  coimt  my  love  for  you.  Shall  I  put 
the  chops  on,  Jim?" 

Out  of  his  trance  Jim  seemed  quickly  to  wake.  He  enfolded 


154  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

his  Delia.  For  ten  seconds  let  us  regard  with  discreet  scrut* 
iny  some  inconsequential  object  in  the  other  direction.  Eight 
dollars  a  week  or  a  million  a  year — what  is  the  difference.? 
A  mathematician  or  a  wit  would  give  you  the  'WTong  an- 
swer. The  magi  brought  valuable  gifts,  but  that  was  not 
among  them.  This  dark  assertion  will  be  illuminated  later 
on. 

Jim  drew  a  package  from  his  overcoat  pocket  and  threw  it 
upon  the  table. 

"Don't  make  any  mistake,  Dell,"  he  said,  "about  me.  I 
don't  think  there's  anything  in  the  way  of  a  haircut  or  a  shave 
or  a  shampoo  that  could  make  me  like  my  girl  any  less.  But 
if  you'll  un^^Tap  that  package  you  may  see  why  you  had  me 
going  awhile  at  first." 

AVhite  fingers  and  nimble  tore  at  the  string  and  paper. 
And  then  an  ecstatic  scream  of  joy;  and  then,  alas!  a  quick 
feminine  change  to  hysterical  tears  and  wails,  necessitating 
the  immediate  employment  of  all  the  comforting  powers  of 
the  lord  of  the  flat. 

For  there  lay  The  Combs — the  set  of  combs,  side  and  back, 
that  Delia  had  worshipped  for  long  in  a  Broadway  window. 
Beautiful  combs,  pure  tortoise  shell,  with  jeweled  rims — 
just  the  shade  to  wear  in  the  beautiful  vanished  hair.  Thej" 
were  expensive  combs,  she  knew,  and  her  heart  had  simply 
craved  and  yearned  over  them  without  the  least  hope  of 
possession.  And  now,  they  were  hers,  but  the  tresses  that 
should  have  adorned  the  coveted  adornments  were  gone. 

But  she  hugged  them  to  her  bossom,  and  at  length  she  was 
able  to  look  up  with  dim  eyes  and  a  smile  and  say:  "My 
hair  grows  so  fast,  Jim!" 

And  then  Delia  leaped  up  like  a  little  singed  cat  and  cried, 
"Oh,  oh!" 

Jim  had  not  yet  seen  his  beautiful  present.  She  held  it  out 
to  him  eagerly  upon  her  open  palm.  The  dull  precious  metal 
seemed  to  flash  with  a  reflection  of  her  bright  and  ardent 
spirit. 

"Isn't  it  a  dandy,  Jim?     I  hunted  all  over  town  to  find  it. 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI  155 

You'll  have  to  look  at  the  time  a  hundred  times  a  day  now. 
Give  me  your  watch.     I  want  to  see  how  it  looks  on  it." 

Instead  of  obeying,  Jim  tumbled  down  on  the  couch  and 
put  his  hands  under  the  back  of  his  head  and  smiled. 

"Dell,"  said  he,  "let's  put  our  Christmas  presents  away 
and  keep  'em  awhile.  They're  too  nice  to  use  just  at  present. 
I  sold  the  watch  to  get  the  money  to  buy  your  combs.  And 
now  suppose  you  put  the  chops  on." 

The  magi,  as  you  know,  were  wise  men— wonderfully  wise 
men— who  brought  gifts  to  the  Babe  in  the  manger.  They 
invented  the  art  of  giving  Christmas  presents.  Being  wise, 
their  gifts  were  no  doubt  wise  ones,  possibly  bearing  the  privi- 
lege of  exchange  in  case  of  duplication.  And  here  I  have 
lamely  related  to  you  the  uneventful  chronicle  of  two  foolish 
children  in  a  flat  who  most  unwisely  sacrificed  for  each  other 
the  greatest  treasures  of  their  house.  But  in  a  last  word  to 
the  wise  of  these  days  let  it  be  said  that  of  all  who  gave  gifts 
these  two  were  the  wisest .  Of  all  who  give  and  receive  gifts 
such  as  they  are  wisest.  Everywhere  they  are  wisest.  Thev 
are  the  magi.  ^ 


THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN 

From  Heart  of  the  West.  First  published  in  Munsey's  Magazine, 
July,  1906.  Twice  before  this  story  was  written  O.  Henry  had 
staged  a  courtship  in  which  the  two  rival  suitors  adopt  opposed 
methods,  and  a  year  before  his  death  he  returned  to  the  contest  with 
four  strategic  suitors  instead  of  two.  But  the  contrast  between  the 
rivals  is  better  based  and  better  enacted  in  this  roaring  farce  than 
in  either  Psyche  and  the  Pskyscraper  or  Telemachus,  Friend  or  A  Poor 
Rule.  The  contrast  here  is  between  the  ultra-matter-of-fact  man 
and  the  ultra-imaginative  man,  between  the  statistical  and  the 
poetic  mind.  In  its  two  leading  characters  the  story  is  a  sort  of 
miniature  Don  Quixote:  Sanderson  Pratt,  like  Sancho  Panza,  is  the 
f actualist;  Idaho  Green,  like  the  Knight  de  la  Mancha,  is  the  ro- 
manticist. The  factualist  wins  out,  though  O.  Henry's  heart  was 
with  Omar,  not  with  Herkimer.  Perhaps,  however,  he  meant  us  to 
see  in  the  character  of  Mrs.  Sampson  a  victorious  defeat  for  the  up- 
holder of  Omar. 


'Tis  the  opinion  of  myself,  Sanderson  Pratt,  who  sets  this 
down,  that  the  educational  system  of  the  United  States 
should  be  in  the  hands  of  the  weather  bureau.  I  can  give 
you  good  reasons  for  it;  and  you  can't  tell  me  why  our  college 
professors  shouldn't  be  transferred  to  the  meteorological  de- 
partment. They  have  been  learned  to  read;  and  they  could 
very  easily  glance  at  the  morning  papers  and  then  wire  in  to 
the  main  office  what  kind  of  weather  to  expect.  But  there's 
the  other  side  of  the  proposition.  I  am  going  on  to  tell  you 
how  the  weather  furnished  me  and  Idaho  Green  with  an  ele- 
gant education. 

We  was  up  in  Bitter  Root  Mountains  over  the  Montana 
line  prospecting  for  gold.  A  chin-whiskered  man  in  Walla- 
Walla,  carrying  a  line  of  hope  as  excess  baggage,  had  grub- 

156 


THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN  157 

staked  us;  and  there  we  was  in  the  foothills  pecking  away, 
with  enough  grub  on  hand  to  last  an  army  through  a  peace 
conference. 

Along  one  day  comes  a  mail-rider  over  the  mountains  from 
Carlos,  and  stops  to  eat  three  cans  of  green-gages,  and  leave  us 
a  newspaper  of  modern  date.  This  paper  prints  a  system  of 
premonitions  of  the  weather,  and  the  card  it  dealt  Bitter 
Root  Mountains  from  the  bottom  of  the  deck  was  "warmer 
and  fair,  with  light  westerly  breezes." 

That  evening  it  began  to  snow,  with  the  wind  strong  in  the 
east.  Me  and  Idaho  moved  camp  into  an  old  empty  cabin 
higher  up  the  mountain,  thinking  it  was  only  a  November 
flurry.  But  after  falling  three  foot  on  a  level  it  went  to  work 
in  earnest;  and  we  knew  we  was  snowed  in.  We  got  in  plenty 
of  firewood  before  it  got  deep,  and  we  had  grub  enough  for 
two  months,  so  we  let  the  elements  rage  and  cut  up  all  they 
thought  proper. 

If  you  want  to  instigate  the  art  of  manslaughter  just  shut 
two  men  up  in  a  eighteen  by  twenty -foot  cabin  for  a  month. 
Human  nature  won't  stand  it. 

When  the  first  snowflakes  fell  me  and  Idaho  Green  laughed 
at  each  other's  jokes  and  praised  the  stuff  we  turned  out  of  a 
skillet  and  called  bread.  At  the  end  of  three  weeks  Idaho 
makes  this  kind  of  a  edict  to  me.     Says  he : 

"I  never  exactly  heard  sour  milk  dropping  out  of  a  balloon 
on  the  bottom  of  a  tin  pan,  but  I  have  an  idea  it  would  be 
music  of  the  spears  compared  to  this  attenuated  stream  of 
asphyxiated  thought  that  emanates  out  of  your  organs  of 
conversation.  The  kind  of  half -masticated  noises  that  you 
emit  every  day  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  cow's  cud,  only  she's 
lady  enough  to  keep  hers  to  herself,  and  you  ain't." 

"Mr.  Green,"  says  I,  "you  having  been  a  friend  of  mine 
once,  I  have  some  hesitations  in  confessing  to  you  that  if  I 
had  my  choice  for  society  between  you  and  a  common  yellow, 
three-legged  cur  pup,  one  of  the  inmates  of  this  here  cabin 
would  be  wagging  a  tail  just  at  present." 

This  way  we  goes  on  for  two  or  three  days,  and  then  we 


158  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

quits  speaking  to  one  another.  We  divides  up  the  cooking 
implements,  and  Idaho  cooks  his  grub  on  one  side  of  the  fire- 
place, and  me  on  the  other.  The  snow  is  up  to  the  windows, 
and  we  have  to  keep  a  fire  all  day. 

You  see  me  and  Idaho  never  had  any  education  beyond 
reading  and  doing  "if  John  had  three  apples  and  James  five" 
on  a  slate.  We  never  felt  any  special  need  for  a  university 
degree,  though  we  had  acquired  a  species  of  intrinsic  intelli- 
gence in  knocking  around  the  world  that  we  could  use  in 
emergencies.  But  snowbound  in  that  cabin  in  the  Bitter 
Roots,  we  felt  for  the  first  time  that  if  we  had  studied  Homer 
or  Greek  and  fractions  and  the  higher  branches  of  informa- 
tion, we'd  have  had  some  resources  in  the  line  of  meditation 
and  private  thought.  I've  seen  them  Eastern  college  fellows 
working  in  camps  all  through  the  West,  and  I  never  noticed 
but  what  education  was  less  of  a  drawback  to  'em  than  you 
w^ould  think.  WTiy,  once  over  on  Snake  River,  when  Andrew 
Mc Williams'  saddle  horse  got  the  botts,  he  sent  a  buckboard 
ten  miles  for  one  of  these  strangers  that  claimed  to  be  a  bota- 
nist.    But  that  horse  died. 

One  morning  Idaho  was  poking  around  with  a  stick  on  top 
of  a  little  shelf  that  was  too  high  to  reach.  Two  books  fell 
down  to  the  floor.  I  started  toward  'em,  but  caught  Idaho's 
eye.     He  speaks  for  the  first  time  in  a  week. 

"Don't  burn  your  fingers,"  says  he.  "In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  you're  only  fit  to  be  the  companion  of  a  sleeping  mud- 
turtle,  I'll  give  you  a  square  deal.  And  that's  more  than 
your  parents  did  when  they  turned  you  loose  in  the  world 
with  the  sociability  of  a  rattlesnake  and  the  bedside  manner  of 
a  frozen  turnip.  I'll  play  you  a  game  of  seven-up,  the  winner 
to  pick  up  his  choice  of  the  book,  the  loser  to  take  the  other." 

We  played;  and  Idaho  won.  He  picked  up  his  book;  and  1 
took  mine.  Then  each  of  us  got  on  his  side  of  the  house  and 
went  to  reading. 

I  never  was  as  glad  to  see  a  ten-ounce  nugget  as  I  was  that 
book.  And  Idaho  looked  at  his  like  a  kid  looks  at  a  stick 
of  candy. 


THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN  159 

Mine  was  a  little  book  about  five  by  six  inches  called  "Her- 
kimer's Handbook  of  Indispensable  Information."  I  may 
be  wrong,  but  I  think  that  was  the  greatest  book  that  ever 
was  written.  I've  got  it  to-day;  and  I  can  stump  you  or  any 
man  fifty  times  in  five  minutes  with  the  information  in  it. 
Talk  about  Solomon  or  the  New  York  Tribune!  Herkimer 
had  cases  on  both  of  'em.  That  man  must  have  put  in  fifty 
years  and  traveled  a  million  miles  to  find  out  all  that  stuff. 
There  was  the  population  of  all  cities  in  it,  and  the  way  to 
tell  a  girl's  age,  and  the  number  of  teeth  a  camel  has.  It 
told  you  the  longest  tunnel  in  the  world,  the  number  of  the 
stars,  how  long  it  takes  for  chicken  pox  to  break  out,  what  a 
lady's  neck  ought  to  measure,  the  veto  powers  of  Governors, 
the  dates  of  the  Roman  aqueducts,  how  many  pounds  of  rice 
going  without  three  beers  a  day  would  buy,  the  average  an- 
nual temperature  of  Augusta,  Maine,  the  quantity  of  seed  re- 
quired to  plant  an  acre  of  carrots  in  drills,  antidotes  for  poi- 
sons, the  number  of  hairs  on  a  blonde  lady's  head,  how  to  pre- 
serve eggs,  the  height  of  all  the  mountains  in  the  world,  and 
the  dates  of  all  wars  and  battles,  and  how  to  restore  drowned 
persons,  and  sunstroke,  and  the  number  of  tacks  in  a  pound, 
and  how  to  make  dynamite  and  flowers  and  beds,  and  what  to 
do  before  the  doctor  comes — and  a  hundred  times  as  many 
things  besides.  If  there  was  anything  Herkimer  didn't  know 
I  didn't  miss  it  out  of  the  book. 

I  sat  and  read  that  book  for  four  hours.  All  the  wonders 
of  education  was  compressed  in  it.  I  forgot  the  snow,  and  I 
forgot  that  me  and  old  Idaho  was  on  the  outs.  He  was  sit- 
ting still  on  a  stool  reading  away  with  a  kind  of  partly  soft 
and  partly  mysterious  look  shining  through  his  tan-bark 
whiskers. 

"Idaho,"  says  I,  "what  kind  of  a  book  is  yours?" 

Idaho  must  have  forgot,  too,  for  he  answered  moderate, 
without  any  slander  or  malignity. 

"Why,"  says  he,  "this  here  seems  to  be  a  volume  by  Homer 
KM." 

"Homer  K.  M.  what.?"  I  asked. 


160  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"WTiy,  just  Homer  K.  M.,"  says  he. 

"You're  a  liar,"  says  I,  a  little  riled  that  Idaho  should 
try  to  put  me  up  a  tree.  "No  man  is  going  'round  signing 
books  with  his  initials.  If  it's  Homer  K.  M.  Spoopendyke, 
or  Homer  K.  M.  McSweeney,  or  Homer  K.  M.  Jones,  why 
don't  you  say  so  like  a  man  instead  of  biting  off  the  end  of  it 
like  a  calf  chewing  off  the  tail  of  a  shirt  on  a  clothes-line?" 

"  I  put  it  to  you  straight,  Sandy,"  says  Idaho,  quiet.  "  It's 
a  poem  book,"  says  he,  "by  Homer  K.  M.  I  couldn't  get 
color  out  of  it  at  first,  but  there's  a  vein  if  you  follow  it  up. 
I  wouldn't  have  missed  this  book  for  a  pair  of  red  blankets.'* 

"You're  welcome  to  it,"  says  I.  "What  I  want  is  a  disin- 
terested statement  of  facts  for  the  mind  to  w;ork  on,  and  that's 
what  I  seem  to  fiind  in  the  book  I've  drawTi." 

"^Vhat  you've  got,"  says  Idaho,  "is  statistics,  the  lowest 
grade  of  information  that  exists.  They'll  poison  your  mind. 
Give  me  old  K.  M.'s  system  of  surmises.  He  seems  to  be  a 
kind  of  a  wine  agent.  His  regular  toast  is  'nothing  doing,' 
and  he  seems  to  have  a  grouch,  but  he  keeps  it  so  well  lubri- 
cated with  booze  that  his  worst  kicks  sound  like  an  invitation 
to  split  a  quart.  But  it's  poetry,"  says  Idaho,  "and  I  have 
sensations  of  scorn  for  that  truck  of  yours  that  tries  to  con- 
vey sense  in  feet  and  inches.  When  it  comes  to  explaining 
the  instinct  of  philosophy  through  the  art  of  nature,  old 
K.  M.  has  got  your  man  beat  by  drills,  rows,  paragraphs, 
chest  measurement,  and  average  annual  rainfall." 

So  that's  the  way  me  and  Idaho  had  it.  Day  and  night  all 
the  excitement  we  got  was  studying  our  books.  That  snow- 
storm sure  fixed  us  with  a  fine  lot  of  attainments  apiece.  By 
the  time  the  snow  melted,  if  you  had  stepped  up  to  me  sud- 
denly and  said:  "Sanderson  Pratt,  what  would  it  cost  per 
square  foot  to  lay  a  roof  with  twenty  by  twenty -eight  tin  at 
nine  dollars  and  fifty  cents  per  box?"  I'd  have  told  you  as 
quick  as  light  could  travel  the  length  of  a  spade  handle  at 
the  rate  of  one  hundred  and  ninety -two  thousand  miles  per 
second.  Howmany  cando  it?  You  wake  up 'most  any  man 
you  know  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  ask  him  quick  to 


THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN  161 

tell  you  the  number  of  bones  in  the  human  skeleton  exclusive 
of  the  teeth,  or  what  percentage  of  the  vote  of  the  Nebraska 
Legislature  overrules  a  veto.  Will  he  tell  you ?  Try  him  and 
see. 

About  what  benefit  Idaho  got  out  of  his  poetry  book  I 
didn't  exactly  know.  Idaho  boosted  the  wine-agent  every 
time  he  opened  his  mouth;  but  I  wasn't  so  sure. 

This  Homer  K.  M.,  from  what  leaked  out  of  his  libretto 
through  Idaho,  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  kind  of  a  dog  who  looked 
at  life  like  it  was  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail.  After  running 
himself  half  to  death,  he  sits  down,  hangs  his  tongue  out,  and 
looks  at  the  can  and  says: 

"Oh,  well,  since  we  can't  shake  the  growler,  let's  get  it 
filled  at  the  corner,  and  all  have  a  drink  on  me." 

Besides  that,  it  seems  he  was  a  Persian;  and  I  never  hear  of 
Persia  producing  anything  worth  mentioning  unless  it  was 
Turkish  rugs  and  Maltese  cats. 

That  spring  me  and  Idaho  struck  pay  ore.  It  was  a  habit 
of  ours  to  sell  out  quick  and  keep  moving.  We  unloaded  on 
our  grubstaker  for  eight  thousand  dollars  apiece;  and  then 
we  drifted  down  to  this  little  town  of  Rosa,  on  the  Salmon 
River,  to  rest  up,  and  get  some  human  grub,  and  have  our 
whiskers  harvested. 

Rosa  was  no  mining-camp.  It  laid  in  the  valley,  and  was 
as  free  of  uproar  and  pestilence  as  one  of  them  rural  towns  in 
the  country.  There  was  a  three-mile  trolley  line  champing 
its  bit  in  the  environs;  and  me  and  Idaho  spent  a  week  riding 
on  one  of  the  cars,  dropping  off  of  nights  at  the  Sunset  View 
Hotel.  Being  now  well  read  as  well  as  traveled,  we  was 
soon  pro  re  nata  with  the  best  society  in  Rosa,  and  was  in- 
vited out  to  the  most  dressed-up  and  high-toned  entertain- 
ments. It  was  at  a  piano  recital  and  quail-eating  contest  in 
the  city  hall,  for  the  benefit  of  the  fire  company,  that  me  and 
Idaho  first  met  Mrs.  De  Ormond  Sampson,  the  queen  of  Rosa 
society. 

Mrs.  Sampson  was  a  widow,  and  owned  the  only  two-story 
house  in  town.     It  was  painted  yellow,  and  whichever  way 


162  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

you  looked  from,  you  could  see  it  as  plain  as  egg  on  the  chin 
of  an  O' Grady  on  a  Friday.  Twenty-two  men  in  Rosa  be- 
sides me  and  Idaho  was  trying  to  stake  a  claim  on  that  yellow 
house. 

There  was  a  dance  after  the  song  books  and  quail  bones 
had  been  raked  out  of  the  Hall.  Twenty-three  of  the  bunch 
galloped  over  to  Mrs.  Sampson  and  asked  for  a  dance.  I 
side-stepped  the  two-step,  and  asked  permission  to  escort  her 
home.     That's  where  I  made  a  hit. 

On  the  way  home  says  she: 

"Ain't  the  stars  lovely  and  bright  to-night,  Mr.  Pratt?" 

"For  the  chance  they've  got,"  says  I,  "they're  humping 
themselves  in  a  mighty  creditable  way.  The  big  one  you 
see  is  sixty-six  billions  of  miles  distant.  It  took  thirty-six 
years  for  its  light  to  reach  us.  With  an  eighteen-foot  tele- 
scope you  can  see  forty-three  millions  of  'em,  including  them 
of  the  thirteenth  magnitude,  which,  if  one  was  to  go  out  now, 
you  w^ould  keep  on  seeing  it  for  twenty-seven  hundred  years." 

"My!"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "I  never  knew  that  before. 
How  warm  it  is !  I'm  as  damp  as  I  can  be  from  dancing  so 
much." 

"That's  easy  to  account  for,"  says  I,  "when  you  happen 
to  know  that  you've  got  two  million  sweat-glands  working 
all  at  once.  If  every  one  of  your  perspiratory  ducts,  which 
are  a  quarter  of  an  inch  long,  was  placed  end  to  end,  they 
would  reach  a  distance  of  seven  miles." 

"Lawsy!"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "It  sounds  like  an  irriga- 
tion ditch  you  was  describing,  Mr.  Pratt.  How  do  you  get 
all  this  knowledge  of  information.^" 

"From  observation,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  I  tells  her.  "I  keep 
my  eyes  open  when  I  go  about  the  world." 

"Mr.  Pratt,"  says  she,  "I  always  did  admire  a  man  of 
education.  There  are  so  few  scholars  among  the  sap-headed 
plug-uglies  of  this  town  that  it  is  a  real  pleasure  to  converse 
with  a  gentleman  of  culture.  I'd  be  gratified  to  have  you 
call  at  my  house  whenever  you  feel  so  inclined." 

And  that  was  the  way  I  got  the  goodwill  of  the  lady  in  the 


THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN  163 

yellow  house.  Every  Tuesday  and  Friday  evenings  I  used 
to  go  there  and  tell  her  about  the  wonders  of  the  universe  as 
discovered,  tabulated,  and  compiled  from  nature  by  Herki- 
mer. Idaho  and  the  other  gay  Lutherans  of  the  town  got 
every  minute  of  the  rest  of  the  week  that  they  could. 

I  never  imagined  that  Idaho  was  trying  to  work  on  IVIrs. 
Sampson  with  old  K.  M.'s  rules  of  courtship  till  one  afternoon 
when  I  was  on  my  way  over  to  take  her  a  basket  of  wild  hog- 
plums.  I  met  the  lady  coming  down  the  lane  that  led  to  her 
house.  Her  eyes  was  snapping,  and  her  hat  made  a  danger- 
ous dip  over  one  eye. 

"Mr.  Pratt,"  she  opens  up,  "this  Mr.  Green  is  a  friend  of 
yours,  I  believe." 

"For  nine  years,"  says  I. 

"Cut  him  out,"  says  she.     "He's  no  gentleman!" 

"Why  ma'am,"  says  I,  "he's  a  plain  incumbent  of  the 
mountains,  with  asperities  and  the  usual  failings  of  a  spend- 
thrift and  a  liar,  but  I  never  on  the  most  momentous  occasion 
had  the  heart  to  deny  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  It  may  be 
that  in  haberdashery  and  the  sense  of  arrogance  and  display 
Idaho  offends  the  eye,  but  inside,  ma'am,  I've  found  him 
impervious  to  the  lower  grades  of  crime  and  obesity.  After 
nine  years  of  Idaho's  society,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  I  winds  up, 
"I  should  hate  to  impute  him,  and  I  should  hate  to  see  him 
imputed." 

"It's  right  plausible  of  you,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  Mrs.  Samp- 
son, "to  take  up  the  curmudgeons  in  your  friend's  behalf; 
but  it  don't  alter  the  fact  that  he  has  made  proposals  to 
me  sufficiently  obnoxious  to  ruffle  the  ignominy  of  any 
lady." 

"Why,  now,  now,  now!"  says  I.  "Old  Idaho  do  that!  I 
could  believe  it  of  myself  sooner.  I  never  knew  but  one  thing 
to  deride  in  him;  and  a  blizzard  was  responsible  for  that. 
Once  while  we  was  snowbound  in  the  mountains  he  became  a 
prey  to  a  kind  of  spurious  and  uneven  poetry,  which  may 
have  corrupted  his  demeanor." 

"It  has,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.     "Ever  since  I  knew  him 


164  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

he  has  been  reciting  to  me  a  lot  of  irreligious  rhymes  by  some 
person  he  calls  Ruby  Ott,  and  who  is  no  better  than  she 
should  be,  if  you  judge  by  her  poetry." 

"Then  Idaho  has  struck  a  new  book,"  says  I,  "for  the  one 
he  had  was  by  a  man  who  writes  under  the  nom  de  phwie  of 
K.  M." 

"He'd  better  have  stuck  to  it,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson,  "what- 
ever it  was.  And  to-day  he  caps  the  vortex.  I  get  a  bunch 
of  flowers  from  him,  and  on  'em  is  pinned  a  note.  Now, 
Mr.  Pratt,  you  know  a  lady  when  you  see  her;  and  you  know 
how  I  stand  in  Rosa  society.  Do  you  think  for  a  moment 
that  I'd  skip  out  to  the  woods  with  a  man  along  with  a  jug 
of  wine  and  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  go  singing  and  cavorting  up 
and  down  under  the  trees  with  him.'^  I  take  a  little  claret 
with  my  meals,  but  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  packing  a  jug  of 
it  into  the  brush  and  raising  Cain  in  any  such  style  as  that. 
And  of  course  he'd  bring  his  book  of  verses  along,  too.  He 
said  so.  Let  him  go  on  his  scandalous  picnics  alone!  Or 
let  him  take  his  Ruby  Ott  with  him.  I  reckon  she  wouldn't 
kick  unless  it  was  on  account  of  there  being  too  much  bread 
along.  And  what  do  you  think  of  your  gentleman  friend 
now,  IVIr.  Pratt?" 

"Well,  'm,"  says  I,  "it  may  be  that  Idaho's  invitation  was 
a  kind  of  poetry,  and  meant  no  harm.  May  be  it  belonged 
to  the  class  of  rhymes  they  call  figurative.  They  offend 
law  and  order,  but  they  get  sent  through  the  mails  on  the 
grounds  that  they  mean  something  that  they  don't  say.  I'd 
be  glad  on  Idaho's  account  if  you'd  overlook  it,"  says  I,  "and 
let  us  extricate  our  minds  from  the  low  regions  of  poetry  to 
the  higher  planes  of  fact  and  fancy.  On  a  beautiful  afternoon 
like  this,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  I  goes  on,  "we  should  let  our 
thoughts  dwell  accordingly.  Though  it  is  warm  here,  we 
should  remember  that  at  the  equator  the  line  of  perpetual 
frost  is  at  an  altitude  of  fifteen  thousand  feet.  Between 
the  latitudes  of  forty  degrees  and  forty-nine  degrees  it  is 
from  four  thousand  to  nine  thousand  feet." 

"Oh,  jVIt.  Pratt,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson,  "it's  such  a  comfort 


THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN  165 

to  hear  you  say  them  beautiful  facts  after  getting  such  a  jar 
from  that  minx  of  a  Ruby's  poetry!" 

"Let  us  sit  on  this  log  at  the  roadside,"  says  I,  "and  forget 
the  inhumanity  and  ribaldry  of  the  poets.  It  is  in  the  glori- 
ous columns  of  ascertained  facts  and  legalized  measures  that 
beauty  is  to  be  found.  In  this  very  log  we  sit  upon,  Mrs. 
Sampson,"  says  I,  "is  statistics  more  wonderful  than  any 
poem.  The  rings  show  it  was  sixty  years  old.  At  the  depth 
of  two  thousand  feet  it  would  become  coal  in  three  thousand 
years.  The  deepest  coal  mine  in  the  world  is  at  Killingworth, 
near  Newcastle.  A  box  four  feet  long,  three  feet  w^de,  and 
two  feet  eight  inches  deep  will  hold  one  ton  of  coal.  If 
an  artery  is  cut,  compress  it  above  the  wound.  A  man's 
leg  contains  thirty  bones.  The  Tower  of  London  was  burned 
in  1841." 

"Go  on,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "Them  ideas 
is  so  original  and  soothing.  I  think  statistics  are  just  as 
lovely  as  they  can  be." 

But  it  wasn't  till  two  weeks  later  that  I  got  all  that  was 
coming  to  me  out  of  Herkimer. 

One  night  I  was  waked  up  by  folks  hollering  "Fire!"  all 
around.  I  jumped  up  and  dressed  and  went  out  of  the  hotel 
to  enjoy  the  scene.  When  I  seen  it  was  Mrs.  Sampson's 
house,  I  gave  forth  a  kind  of  yell,  and  I  was  there  in  two 
minutes. 

The  whole  lower  story  of  the  yellow  house  was  in  flames, 
and  every  masculine,  feminine,  and  canine  in  Rosa  was  there, 
screeching  and  barking  and  getting  in  the  way  of  the  firemen. 
I  saw  Idaho  trying  to  get  away  from  six  firemen  who  were 
holding  him.  They  was  telling  him  the  whole  place  was  on 
fire  downstairs,  and  no  man  could  go  in  it  and  come  out  alive. 

"Where's  Mrs.  Sampson?"  I  asks. 

"She  hasn't  been  seen,"  says  one  of  the  firemen.  "She 
sleeps  upstairs.  We've  tried  to  get  in,  but  we  can't,  and  our 
company  hasn't  got  any  ladders  yet." 

I  runs  around  to  the  light  of  the  big  blaze,  and  pulls  the 
Handbook  out  of  my  inside  pocket.     I  kind  of  laughed  when 


166  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

I  felt  it  in  my  hands — I  reckon  I  was  some  daffy  with  the  sen- 
sation of  excitement. 

"Herky,  old  boy,"  I  says  to  it,  as  I  flipped  over  the  pages, 
"you  ain't  ever  lied  to  me  yet,  and  you  ain't  ever  thro  wed 
me  doTVTi  at  a  scratch  yet.  Tell  me  what,  old  boy,  tell  me 
what!"  says  I. 

I  turned  to  "\Miat  to  do  in  Case  of  Accidents,"  on  page 
117.  I  run  my  finger  down  the  page,  and  struck  it.  Good 
old  Herkimer,  he  never  overlooked  anything!     It  said: 

Suffocation  from  Inhaling  Smoke  or  Gas. — There  is  nothing 
better  than  flaxseed.     Place  a  few  seed  in  the  outer  comer  of  the  eye. 

I  shoved  the  Handbook  back  in  my  pocket,  and  grabbed 
a  boy  that  was  running  by. 

"Here,"  says  I,  giving  him  some  money,  "run  to  the  drug 
store  and  bring  a  dollar's  worth  of  flaxseed.  Hurry,  and 
you'll  get  another  one  for  yourself.  Now,"  I  sings  out  to 
the  crowd,  "we'll  have  Mrs.  Sampson!"  And  I  throws  away 
my  coat  and  hat. 

Four  of  the  firemen  and  citizens  grabs  hold  of  me.  It's 
sure  death,  they  say,  to  go  in  the  house,  for  the  floors  was 
beginning  to  fall  through. 

"How  in  blazes,"  I  sings  out,  kind  of  laughing  yet,  but  not 
feeling  like  it,  "do  you  expect  me  to  put  flaxseed  in  a  eye 
without  the  eye?" 

I  jabbed  each  elbow  in  a  fireman's  face,  kicked  the  bark 
off  of  one  citizen's  shin,  and  tripped  the  other  one  with  a  side 
hold.  And  then  I  busted  into  the  house.  If  I  die  first  I'll 
write  you  a  letter  and  tell  you  if  it's  any  worse  down  there 
than  the  inside  of  that  yellow  house  was ;  but  don't  believe  it 
yet.  I  was  a  heap  more  cooked  than  the  hurry-up  orders 
of  broiled  chicken  that  you  get  in  restaurants.  The  fire 
and  smoke  had  me  down  on  the  floor  twice,  and  was  about  to 
shame  Herkimer,  but  the  firemen  helped  me  with  their  little 
stream  of  water,  and  I  got  to  Mrs.  Sampson's  room.  She'd 
lost  conscientiousness  from  the  smoke,  so  I  wrapped  her  in 


THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN  167 

the  bedclothes  and  got  her  on  my  shoulder.  Well,  the  floors 
wasn't  as  bad  as  they  said,  or  I  never  could  have  done  it — 
not  by  no  means. 

I  carried  her  out  fifty  yards  from  the  house  and  laid  her  on 
the  grass.  Then,  of  course,  every  one  of  them  other  twenty- 
two  plaintiffs  to  the  lady's  hand  crowded  around  with  tin 
dippers  of  water  ready  to  save  her.  And  up  runs  the  boy 
with  the  flaxseed. 

I  unwrapped  the  covers  from  Mrs.  Sampson's  head.  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  says: 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Pratt.?" 

"S-s-sh,"  says  I.     "Don't  talk  till  you've  had  the  remedy." 

I  runs  my  arm  around  her  neck  and  raises  her  head,  gentle, 
and  breaks  the  bag  of  flaxseed  with  the  other  hand;  and  as 
easy  as  I  could  I  bends  over  and  slips  three  or  four  of  the  seeds 
in  the  outer  corner  of  her  eye. 

Up  gallops  the  village  doc  by  this  time,  and  snorts  around, 
and  grabs  at  Mrs.  Sampson's  pulse,  and  wants  to  know  what 
I  mean  by  any  such  sandblasted  nonsense. 

"Well,  old  Jalap  and  Jerusalem  oakseed,"  says  I,  "I'm 
no  regular  practitioner,  but  I'll  show  you  my  authority, 
anyway." 

They  fetched  my  coat,  and  I  gets  out  the  Handbook. 

"Look  on  page  117,"  says  I,  "at  the  remedy  for  suffoca- 
tion by  smoke  or  gas.  Flaxseed  in  the  outer  corner  of  the 
eye,  it  says.  I  don't  know  whether  it  works  as  a  smoke-con- 
sumer or  whether  it  hikes  the  compound  gastro-hippopotamus 
nerve  into  action,  but  Herkimer  says  it,  and  he  was  called 
to  the  case  first.  If  you  want  to  make  it  a  consultation, 
there's  no  objection." 

Old  doc  takes  the  book  and  looks  at  it  by  means  of  his 
specs  and  a  fireman's  lantern. 

"Well,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  he,  "you  evidently  got  on  the 
wrong  line  in  reading  your  diagnosis.  The  recipe  for  suffoca- 
tion says :  'Get  the  patient  into  fresh  air  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  place  in  a  rechning  position.'  The  flaxseed  remedy  is 
for  *Dust  and  Cinders  in  the  Eye,'  on  the  line  above.  But, 
after  all " 


168  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"See  here,"  interrupts  Mrs.  Sampson,  "I  reckon  I've  got 
something  to  say  in  this  consultation.  That  flaxseed  done 
me  more  good  than  anything  I  ever  tried."  And  then  she 
raises  up  her  head  and  lays  it  back  on  my  arm  again,  and 
says:  "Put  some  in  the  other  eye,  Sandy  dear." 

And  so  if  you  was  to  stop  off  at  Rosa  to-morrow,  or  any 
other  day,  you'd  see  a  fine  new  yellow  house  with  Mrs.  Pratt, 
that  was  ^Irs.  Sampson,  embellishing  and  adorning  it.  And 
if  you  was  to  step  inside  you'd  see  on  the  marble-top  centre 
table  in  the  parlor  "Herkimer's  Handbook  of  Indispensable 
Information,"  all  rebound  in  red  morocco,  and  ready  to  be 
consulted  on  any  subject  pertaining  to  human  happiness  and 
wisdom. 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP 

From  The  Trimmed  Lamp.  First  published  in  McClure's  Maga- 
s^ine,  August,  1906.  Unlike  most  of  O.  Henry's  shop-girl  stories 
The  Trimmed  Lamp  does  not  concern  itself  with  possible  pitfalls  but 
with  means  of  self-improvement.  It  is  a  classic  of  self-culture 
through  the  vocation.  Its  text  might  well  have  been  these  words 
of  the  historian  Froude:  "Every  occupation,  even  the  meanest — 
I  don't  say  the  scavenger's  or  the  chimney-sweep's — but  every 
productive  occupation  which  adds  anything  to  the  capital  of  man- 
kind, if  followed  assiduously  with  a  desire  to  understand  everything 
connected  with  it,  is  an  ascending  stair  whose  summit  is  nowhere, 
and  from  the  successive  steps  of  which  the  horizon  of  knowledge 
perpetually  enlarges."  Notice  the  three  types  of  character  sketched: 
Dan,  like  Kent  in  King  Lear  or  Horatio  in  Hamlet,  is  the  good, 
steady,  stationary  type;  Nancy  is  the  ascending  type;  Lou  is  the 
descending  type.  ''The  Trimmed  Lamp,"  said  O.  Henry,  "is  the 
other  side  of  An  Unfinished  Story.'''  It  is  the  other  side  because 
Nancy,  the  leading  character,  moves  or  is  seK-impelled  upward, 
while  Dulcie  moved  or  was  drawn  downward. 

Of  course  there  are  two  sides  to  the  question.  Let  us 
look  at  the  other.  We  often  hear  "shop-girls"  spoken  of. 
No  such  persons  exist.  There  are  girls  who  work  in  shops. 
They  make  their  living  that  way.  But  why  turn  their  occu- 
pation into  an  adjective?  Let  us  be  fair.  We  do  not  refer 
to  the  girls  who  live  on  Fifth  Avenue  as  "marriage-girls." 

Lou  and  Nancy  were  chums.  They  came  to  the  big  city 
to  find  work  because  there  was  not  enough  to  eat  at  their 
homes  to  go  around.  Nancy  was  nineteen;  Lou  was  twenty. 
Both  were  pretty,  active,  country  girls  who  had  no  ambition 
to  go  on  the  stage. 

The  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft  guided  them  to  a  cheap 

169 


170  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

and  respectable  boarding-house.  Both  found  positions  and 
became  wage-earners.  They  remained  chums.  It  is  at  the 
end  of  six  months  that  I  would  beg  you  to  step  forward  and 
be  introduced  to  them.  Meddlesome  Reader:  My  Lady 
friends,  Miss  Nancy  and  Miss  Lou.  TMiile  you  are  shaking 
hands  please  take  notice — cautiously — of  their  attire.  Yes, 
cautiously;  for  they  are  as  quick  to  resent  a  stare  as  a  lady 
in  a  box  at  the  horse  show  is. 

Lou  is  a  piece-work  ironer  in  a  hand  laundry.  She  is 
clothed  in  a  badly  fitting  purple  dress,  and  her  hat  plume  is 
four  inches  too  long;  but  her  ermine  muff  and  scarf  cost  $25, 
and  its  fellow  beasts  will  be  ticketed  in  the  windows  at  $7.98 
before  the  season  is  over.  Her  cheeks  are  pink,  and  her  light 
blue  eyes  bright.     Contentment  radiates  from  her. 

Nancy  you  would  call  a  shop-girl — because  you  have  the 
habit.  There  is  no  type ;  but  a  perverse  generation  is  always 
seeking  a  type;  so  this  is  what  the  type  should  be.  She  has 
the  high-ratted  pompadour,  and  the  exaggerated  straight- 
front.  Her  skirt  is  shoddy,  but  has  the  correct  flare.  No 
furs  protect  her  against  the  bitter  spring  air,  but  she  wears 
her  short  broadcloth  jacket  as  jauntily  as  though  it  were 
Persian  lamb !  On  her  face  and  in  her  eyes,  remorseless  type- 
seeker,  is  the  typical  shop-girl  expression.  It  is  a  look  of 
silent  but  contemptuous  revolt  against  cheated  womanhood; 
of  sad  prophecy  of  the  vengeance  to  come.  \^Tien  she  laughs 
her  loudest  the  look  is  still  there.  The  same  look  can  be 
seen  in  the  eyes  of  Russian  peasants;  and  those  of  us  left  will 
see  it  some  day  on  Gabriel's  face  when  he  comes  to  blow  us 
up.  It  is  a  look  that  should  wither  and  abash  man;  but  he 
has  been  known  to  smirk  at  it  and  offer  flowers — with  a  string 
tied  to  them. 

Now  lift  your  hat  and  come  away,  while  you  receive  Lou's 
cheery  "See  you  again,"  and  the  sardonic,  sweet  smile  of 
Nancy  that  seems,  somehow,  to  miss  you  and  go  fluttering 
like  a  white  moth  up  over  the  housetops  to  the  stars. 

The  two  waited  on  the  corner  for  Dan.  Dan  was  Lou's 
steady  company.     Faithful.^     Well,  he  was  on  hand  when 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP  171 

Mary  would  have  had  to  hire  a  dozen  subpoena  servers  to 
find  her  lamb. 

"Ain't  you  cold,  Nance? "  said  Lou.  "Say,  what  a  chump 
you  are  for  working  in  that  old  store  for  $8  a  week!  I 
made  $18.50  last  week.  Of  course  ironing  ain't  as  swell 
work  as  selling  lace  behind  a  counter,  but  it  pays.  None  of 
us  ironers  make  less  than  $10.  And  I  don't  know  that  it's 
any  less  respectful  work,  either." 

*'You  can  have  it,"  said  Nancy,  w^th  uplifted  nose.  "I'll 
take  my  eight  a  week  and  hall  bedroom.  I  like  to  be  among 
nice  things  and  swell  people.  And  look  what  a  chance  I've 
got !  Why,  one  of  our  glove  girls  married  a  Pittsburgh — steel 
maker,  or  blacksmith  or  something — the  other  day  worth  a 
million  dollars.  I'll  catch  a  swell  myself  some  time.  I  ain't 
bragging  on  my  looks  or  anything;  but  I'll  take  my  chances 
where  there's  big  prizes  offered.  \^liat  show  would  a  girl 
have  in  a  laundry  .f^" 

"Why,  that's  where  I  met  Dan,"  said  Lou,  triumphantly. 
"He  came  in  for  his  Sunday  shirt  and  collars  and  saw  me  at 
the  first  board,  ironing.  We  all  try  to  get  to  work  at  the 
first  board.  Ella  Maginnis  was  sick  that  day,  and  I  had  her 
place.  He  said  he  noticed  my  arms  first,  how  round  and 
white  they  was.  I  had  my  sleeves  rolled  up.  Some  nice 
fellows  come  into  laundries.  You  can  tell  'em  by  their  bring- 
ing their  clothes  in  suit  cases,  and  turning  in  the  door  sharp 
and  sudden." 

"How  can  you  wear  a  waist  like  that,  Lou?"  said  Nancy, 
gazing  down  at  the  offending  article  with  sweet  scorn  in  her 
heavy-lidded  eyes.     "It  shows  fierce  taste." 

"This  waist?"  cried  Lou,  w4th  wide-eyed  indignation. 
"Why,  I  paid  $16  for  this  waist.  It's  worth  twenty-five. 
A  woman  left  it  to  be  laundered,  and  never  called  for  it.  The 
boss  sold  it  to  me.  It's  got  yards  and  yards  of  hand  em- 
broidery on  it.  Better  talk  about  that  ugly,  plain  thing 
you've  got  on." 

"This  ugly,  plain  thing,"  said  Nancy,  calmly,  "was  copied 
from  one  that  Mrs.  Van  Alstyne  Fisher  was  wearing.     The 


172  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

girls  say  her  bill  in  the  store  last  year  was  $12,000.  I  made 
mine,  myself .  It  cost  me  $1.50.  Ten  feet  away  you  couldn't 
tell  it  from  hers." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Lou,  good-naturedly,  "if  you  want  to 
starve  and  put  on  airs,  go  ahead.  But  I'll  take  my  job  and 
good  wages;  and  after  hours  give  me  something  as  fancy  and 
attractive  to  w^ear  as  I  am  able  to  buy." 

But  just  then  Dan  came — a  serious  young  man  with  a 
ready-made  necktie,  who  had  escaped  the  city's  brand  of 
frivolity — an  electrician  earning  $30  per  week  who  looked 
upon  Lou  with  the  sad  eyes  of  Romeo,  and  thought  her  em- 
broidered waist  a  web  in  which  any  fly  should  delight  to  be 
caught. 

*'My  friend,  Mr.  Owens — shake  hands  with  Miss  Dan- 
forth,"  said  Lou. 

*'  I'm  mighty  glad  to  know  you.  Miss  Danforth,"  said  Dan, 
with  outstretched  hand.  "I've  heard  Lou  speak  of  you  so 
often." 

"Thanks,"  said  Nancy,  touching  his  fingers  with  the  tips 
of  her  cool  ones,  "I've  heard  her  mention  you — a  few  times." 

Lou  giggled. 

"Did  you  get  that  handshake  from  Mrs.  Van  Alstyne 
Fisher,  Nance?"  she  asked. 

"If  I  did,  you  can  feel  safe  in  copying  it,"  said  Nancy. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  use  it  at  all.  It's  too  stylish  for  me.  It's 
intended  to  set  off  diamond  rings,  that  high  shake  is.  Wait 
till  I  get  a  few  and  then  I'll  try  it." 

"Learn  it  first,"  said  Nancy  wisely,  "and  you'll  be  more 
likely  to  get  the  rings." 

"Now,  to  settle  this  argument,"  said  Dan,  with  his  ready, 
cheerful  smile,  "let  me  make  a  proposition.  As  I  can't  take 
both  of  you  up  to  Tiffany's  and  do  the  right  thing,  what  do 
you  say  to  a  little  vaudeville.'^  I've  got  the  tickets.  How 
about  looking  at  stage  diamonds  since  we  can't  shake  hands 
with  the  real  sparklers  .f^" 

The  faithful  squire  took  his  place  close  to  the  curb;  Lou 
next,  a  little  peacocky  in  her  bright  and  pretty  clothes;  Nancy 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP  173 

on  the  inside,  slender,  and  soberly  clothed  as  the  sparrow, 
but  with  the  true  Van  Alstyne  Fisher  walk — thus  they  set 
out  for  their  evening's  moderate  diversion. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  many  look  upon  a  great  department 
store  as  an  educational  institution.  But  the  one  in  which 
Nancy  worked  was  something  like  that  to  her.  She  was 
surrounded  by  beautiful  things  that  breathed  of  taste  and 
refinement.  If  you  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  luxury,  luxury 
is  yours  whether  your  money  pays  for  it,  or  another's. 

The  people  she  served  were  mostly  women  whose  dress, 
manners,  and  position  in  the  social  world  were  quoted  as 
criterions.  From  them  Nancy  began  to  take  toll — the  best 
from  each  according  to  her  view. 

From  one  she  would  copy  and  practice  a  gesture,  from  an- 
other an  eloquent  lifting  of  an  eyebrow,  from  others,  a  man- 
ner of  walking,  of  carrying  a  purse,  of  smiling,  of  greeting 
a  friend,  of  addressing  "inferiors  in  station."  From  her  best 
beloved  model,  Mrs.  Van  Alstyne  Fisher,  she  made  requi- 
sition for  that  excellent  thing,  a  soft,  low  voice  as  clear 
as  silver  and  as  perfect  in  articulation  as  the  notes  of  a  thrush. 
Suffused  in  the  aura  of  this  high  social  refinement  and  good 
breeding,  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  escape  a  deeper  effect 
of  it.  As  good  habits  are  said  to  be  better  than  good  prin- 
ciples, so,  perhaps,  good  manners  are  better  than  good  habits. 
The  teachings  of  your  parents  may  not  keep  alive  your  New 
England  conscience;  but  if  you  sit  on  a  straight-back  chair 
and  repeat  the  words  "prisms  and  pilgrims"  forty  times,  the 
devil  will  flee  from  you.  And  when  Nancy  spoke  in  the 
Van  Alstyne  Fisher  tones  she  felt  the  thrill  of  noblesse  oblige 
to  her  very  bones. 

There  was  another  source  of  learning  in  the  great  depart- 
mental school.  Whenever  you  see  three  or  four  shop-girls 
gather  in  a  bunch  and  jingle  their  wire  bracelets  as  an  ac- 
companiment to  apparently  frivolous  conversation,  do  not 
think  that  they  are  there  for  the  purpose  of  criticizing  the 
way  Ethel  does  her  back  hair.  The  meeting  may  lack  the  dig- 
nity of  the  deliberative  bodies  of  man;  but  it  has  all  the  in?- 


174  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

portance  of  the  occasion  on  which  Eve  and  her  first  daughter 
first  put  their  heads  together  to  make  Adam  understand  his 
proper  place  in  the  household.  It  is  Woman's  Conference 
for  Common  Defense  and  Exchange  of  Strategical  Theories 
of  Attack  and  Repulse  upon  and  against  the  World,  which 
is  a  stage,  and  Man,  its  audience  who  Persists  in  Throwing 
Bouquets  Thereupon.  Woman,  the  most  helpless  of  the 
young  of  any  animal — with  the  fawn's  grace  but  without  its 
fleetness;  with  the  bird's  beauty  but  without  its  power  of 
flight;  with  the  honey-bee's  burden  of  sweetness  but  without 

its Oh,  let's  drop  that  simile — some  of  us  may  have  been 

stung. 

During  this  council  of  war  they  pass  weapons  one  to  an- 
other, and  exchange  stratagems  that  each  has  devised  and 
formulated  out  of  the  tactics  of  life. 

*'I  says  to  'im,"  says  Sadie,  "ain't  you  the  fresh  thing! 
Who  do  you  suppose  I  am,  to  be  addressing  such  a  remark 
to  me?     And  what  do  you  think  he  says  back  to  me?" 

The  heads,  brown,  black,  flaxen,  red,  and  yellow,  bob 
together;  the  answer  is  given;  and  the  parry  to  the  thrust  is 
decided  upon,  to  be  used  by  each  thereafter  in  passages- 
at-arms  with  the  common  enemy,  man. 

Thus  Nancy  learned  the  art  of  defense;  and  to  woman  suc- 
cessful defense  means  victory. 

The  curriculum  of  a  department  store  is  a  wide  one. 
Perhaps  no  other  college  could  have  fitted  her  as  well  for 
her  life's  ambition — the  drawing  of  a  matrimonial  prize. 

Her  station  in  the  store  was  a  favored  one.  The  music 
room  was  near  enough  for  her  to  hear  and  become  familiar 
with  the  works  of  the  best  composers — at  least  to  acquire 
the  familiarity  that  passed  for  appreciation  in  the  social 
world  in  which  she  was  vaguely  trying  to  set  a  tentative  and 
aspiring  foot.  She  absorbed  the  educating  influence  of  art 
wares,  of  costly  and  dainty  fabrics,  of  adornments  that  are 
almost  culture  to  women. 

The  other  girls  soon  became  aware  of  Nancy's  ambition. 
"Here  comes  your  millionaire,  Nancy,"  they  would  call  to  her 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP  175 

whenever  any  man  who  looked  the  role  approached  her  coun- 
ter. It  got  to  be  a  habit  of  men,  who  were  hanging  about 
while  their  women  folk  were  shopping,  to  stroll  over  to  the 
handkerchief  counter  and  dawdle  over  the  cambric  squares. 
Nancy's  imitation  high-bred  air  and  genuine  dainty  beauty 
was  what  attracted.  Many  men  thus  came  to  display  their 
graces  before  her.  Some  of  them  may  have  been  millionau-es ; 
others  were  certainly  no  more  than  their  sedulous  apes! 
Nancy  learned  to  discriminate.  There  was  a  window  at  the 
end  of  the  handkerchief  counter;  and  she  could  see  the  rows 
of  vehicles  waiting  for  the  shoppers  in  the  street  below.  She 
looked  and  perceived  that  automobiles  differ  as  well  as  do 
their  owners. 

Once  a  fascinating  gentleman  bought  four  dozen  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  wooed  her  across  the  counter  with  a  King 
Cophetua  air.     When  he  had  gone  one  of  the  girls  said: 
"What's  wrong,  Nance,  that  you  didn't  warm  up  to  that 
!?^.^     He  looks  the  swell  article,  all  right,  to  me." 
"Him.?"   said  Nancy,   with  her  coolest,    sweetest,   most 
impersonal,  Van  Alstyne  Fisher  smile;    "not  for  mine.     I 
saw  him  drive  up  outside.     A  12  H.  P.  machine  and  an 
Irish  chauffeur!     And  you  saw  what  kind  of  handkerchiefs 
he  bought— silk!    And  he's  got  dactylis  on  him.     Give  me 
the  real  thing  or  nothing,  if  you  please." 

Two  of  the  most  "refined"  women  in  the  store— a  forelady 
and  a  cashier— had  a  few  "swell  gentlemen  friends"  with 
whom  they  now  and  then  dined.  Once  they  included  Nancy 
m  an  invitation.  The  dinner  took  place  in  a  spectacular 
cafe  whose  tables  are  engaged  for  New  Year's  Eve  a  year  in 
advance.  There  were  two  "gentlemen  friends"— one  with- 
out any  hair  on  his  head— high  living  ungrew  it;  and  we  can 
prove  It— the  other  young  man  whose  worth  and  sophisti- 
cation he  impressed  upon  you  in  two  convincing  ways- 
he  swore  that  all  the  wme  was  corked;  and  he  wore  diamond 
cuff  buttons.  This  young  man  perceived  irresistible  ex- 
ceUencies  in  Nancy.  His  taste  ran  to  shop-girls;  and  here 
was  one  that  added  the  voice  and  manners  of  his  high  social 


176  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

world  to  the  franker  charms  of  her  own  caste.  So,  on  the 
following  day,  he  appeared  in  the  store  and  made  her  a 
serious  proposal  of  marriage  over  a  box  of  hemstitched., 
grass-bleached  Irish  linens.  Nancy  declined.  A  brown 
pompadour  ten  feet  away  had  been  using  her  eyes  and  ears. 
TVTien  the  rejected  suitor  had  gone  she  heaped  carboys  of  up- 
braidings  and  horror  upon  Nancy's  head. 

*'^Miat  a  terrible  little  fool  you  are!  That  fellow's  a 
millionaire — he's  a  nephew  of  old  Van  Skittles  himself.  And 
he  was  talking  on  the  level,  too.  Have  you  gone  crazy, 
Nance?" 

*'Have  I?"  said  Nancy.  "I  didn't  take  him,  did  I?  He 
isn't  a  millionaire  so  hard  that  you  could  notice  it,  anyhow. 
His  family  only  allows  him  $20,000  a  year  to  spend.  The 
bald-headed  fellow  was  guying  him  about  it  the  other  night 
at  supper." 

The  browTi  pompadour  came  nearer  and  narrowed  her  eyes. 

"Say,  what  do  you  want?"  she  inquired,  in  a  voice  hoarse 
for  lack  of  chewing-gum.  "Ain't  that  enough  for  you?  Do 
you  want  to  be  a  Mormon,  and  marry  Rockefeller  and  Glad- 
stone Dowie  and  the  King  of  Spain  and  the  whole  bunch? 
Ain't  $20,000  a  year  good  enough  for  you? " 

Nancy  flushed  a  little  under  the  level  gaze  of  the  black, 
shallow  eyes. 

"It  wasn't  altogether  the  money,  Carrie,"  she  explained. 
"His  friend  caught  him  in  a  rank  lie  the  other  night  at  dinner. 
It  was  about  some  girl  he  said  he  hadn't  been  to  the  theater 
with.  Well,  I  can't  stand  a  liar.  Put  everything  together — 
I  don't  like  him;  and  that  settles  it.  When  I  sell  out  it's  not 
going  to  be  on  any  bargain  day.  I've  got  to  have  something 
that  sits  up  in  a  chair  like  a  man,  anyhow.  Yes,  I'm  looking 
out  for  a  catch;  but  it's  got  to  be  able  to  do  something  more 
than  make  a  noise  like  a  toy  bank." 

"The  physiopathic  ward  for  yours!"  said  the  brown  pom- 
padour, walking  away. 

These  high  ideas,  if  not  ideals — ^Nancy  continued  to  cul- 
tivate on  $8  per  week.     She  bivouacked  on  the  trail  of  the 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP  177 

great  unknown  "catch,"  eating  her  dry  bread  and  tightening 
her  belt  day  by  day.  On  her  face  was  the  faint,  soldierly, 
sweet,  grim  smile  of  the  preordained  man-hunter.  The  store 
was  her  forest;  and  many  times  she  raised  her  rifle  at  game 
that  seemed  broad-antlered  and  big;  but  always  some 
deep  unerring  instinct — perhaps  of  the  huntress,  perhaps 
of  the  woman — made  her  hold  her  fire  and  take  the  trail 
again. 

Lou  flourished  in  the  laundry.  Out  of  her  $18.50  per  week 
she  paid  $6  for  her  room  and  board.  The  rest  went  mainly 
for  clothes.  Her  opportunities  for  bettering  her  taste  and 
manners  were  few  compared  with  Nancy 's.  In  the  steaming 
laundry  there  was  nothing  but  work,  work,  and  her  thoughts 
of  the  evening  pleasures  to  come.  Many  costly  and  showy 
fabrics  passed  under  her  iron;  and  it  may  be  that  her  growing 
fondness  for  dress  was  thus  transmitted  to  her  through  the 
conducting  metal. 

When  the  day's  work  was  over  Dan  awaited  her  outside, 
her  faithful  shadow  in  whatever  light  she  stood. 

Sometimes  he  cast  an  honest  and  troubled  glance  at  Lou's 
clothes  that  increased  in  conspicuity  rather  than  in  style; 
but  this  was  no  disloyalty;  he  deprecated  the  attention  they 
called  to  her  in  the  streets. 

And  Lou  was  no  less  faithful  to  her  chum.  There  was  a 
law  that  Nancy  should  go  with  them  on  whatsoever  outings 
they  might  take.  Dan  bore  the  extra  burden  heartily  and 
in  good  cheer.  It  might  be  said  that  Lou  furnished  the  color, 
Nancy  the  tone,  and  Dan  the  weight  of  the  distraction-seek- 
ing trio.  The  escort,  in  his  neat  but  obviously  ready-made 
suit,  his  ready-made  tie  and  unfailing,  genial,  ready-made 
wit,  never  startled  or  clashed.  He  was  cf  that  good  kind 
that  you  are  likely  to  forget  while  they  are  present,  but 
remember  distinctly  after  they  are  gone. 

To  Nancy's  superior  taste  the  flavor  of  these  ready-made 
pleasures  was  sometimes  a  little  bitter:  but  she  was  young.' 
and  youth  is  a  gourmand,  when  it  cannot  be  a  gourmet. 

"Dan  is  always  wanting  me  to  marry  him  right  away," 


178  STORIES  FROM  0.  HENRY 

Lou  told  her  once.  "But  why  should  I?  I'm  independent 
I  can  do  as  I  please  with  the  money  I  earn;  and  he  never 
would  agree  for  me  to  keep  on  working  afterward.  And 
say,  Nance,  what  do  you  want  to  stick  to  that  old  store  for, 
and  half  starve  and  half  dress  yourself.'^  I  could  get  you  a 
place  in  the  laundry  right  now  if  you'd  come.  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  could  afford  to  be  a  little  less  stuck-up  if  you 
could  make  a  good  deal  more  money." 

"I  don't  think  I'm  stuck-up,  Lou,"  said  Nancy,  "but  I'd 
rather  live  on  half  rations  and  stay  where  I  am.  I  suppose 
I've  got  the  habit.  It's  the  chance  that  I  want.  I  don't 
expect  to  be  always  behind  a  counter.  I'm  learning  some- 
thing new  every  day.  I'm  right  up  against  refined  and  rich 
people  all  the  time — even  if  I  do  only  wait  on  them;  and  I'm 
not  missing  any  pointers  that  I  see  passing  around." 

"  Caught  your  millionaire  yet.^  "  asked  Lou  with  her  teasing 
Jaugh. 

"I  haven't  selected  one  yet,"  answered  Nancy.  "I've 
been  looking  them  over." 

"  Goodness !  the  idea  of  picking  over  'em !  Don't  you  ever 
let  one  get  by  you,  Nance — even  if  he's  a  few  dollars  shy. 
But  of  course  you're  joking — millionaires  don't  think  about 
working  girls  like  us." 

"It  might  be  better  for  them  if  they  did,"  said  Nancy, 
with  cool  wisdom.  "Some  of  us  could  teach  them  how  to 
take  care  of  their  money." 

"If  one  was  to  speak  to  me,"  laughed  Lou,  "I  know  I'd 
have  a  duck-fit." 

"That's  because  you  don't  know  any.  The  only  difference 
between  swells  and  other  people  is  you  have  to  watch  'em 
closer.  Don't  you  think  that  red  silk  lining  is  just  a  little 
bit  too  bright  for  that  coat,  Lou.^" 

Lou  looked  at  the  plain,  dull  olive  jacket  of  her  friend. 

"Well,  no,  I  don't — but  it  may  seem  so  beside  that  faded^ 
looking  thing  you've  got  on." 

"This  jacket,"  said  Nancy,  complacently,  "has  exactly 
the  cut  and  fit  of  one  that  Mrs.  Van  Alstyne  Fisher  was  wear- 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP  179 

ing  the  other  day.  The  material  cost  me  $3.98.  I  suppose 
hers  cost  about  $100  more." 

*'0h,  well,"  said  Lou  lightly,  "it  don't  strike  me  as  million- 
aire bait.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  I  catch  one  before  you  do, 
anyway." 

Truly  it  would  have  taken  a  philosopher  to  decide  upon 
the  values  of  the  theories  held  by  the  two  friends.  Lou, 
lacking  that  certain  pride  and  fastidiousness  that  keeps  stores 
and  desks  filled  with  girls  working  for  the  barest  living, 
thumped  away  gaily  with  her  iron  in  the  noisy  and  stifling 
laundry.  Her  wages  supported  her  even  beyond  the  point 
of  comfort;  so  that  her  dress  profited  until  sometimes  she 
cast  a  sidelong  glance  of  impatience  at  the  neat  but  inelegant 
apparel  of  Dan — Dan  the  constant,  the  immutable,  the 
undeviating. 

As  for  Nancy,  her  case  was  one  of  tens  of  thousands.  Silk 
and  jewels  and  laces  and  ornaments  and  the  perfume  and 
music  of  the  fine  world  of  good-breeding  and  taste — these 
were  made  for  woman;  they  are  her  equitable  portion. 
Let  her  keep  near  them  if  they  are  a  part  of  life  to  her,  and 
if  she  will.  She  is  no  traitor  to  herself,  as  Esau  was;  for  she 
keeps  her  birthright  and  the  pottage  she  earns  is  often  very 
scant. 

In  this  atmosphere  Nancy  belonged;  and  she  throve  in 
it  and  ate  her  frugal  meals  and  schemed  over  her  cheap  dresses 
with  a  determined  and  contented  mind.  She  already  knew 
woman;  and  she  was  studying  man,  the  animal,  both  as  to 
his  habits  and  eligibility.  Some  day  she  would  bring  down 
the  game  that  she  wanted;  but  she  promised  herself  it  would 
be  what  seemed  to  her  the  biggest  and  the  best,  and  nothing 
smaller. 

Thus  she  kept  her  lamp  trimmed  and  burning  to  receive 
the  bridegroom  when  he  should  come. 

But,  another  lesson  she  learned,  perhaps  unconsciously. 
Her  standard  of  values  began  to  shift  and  change.  Some- 
times the  dollar-mark  grew  blurred  in  her  mind's  eye,  and 
shaped  itself  into  letters  that  spelled  such  words  as  "truth" 


180  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

and  "honor"  and  now  and  then  just  *'bHndness."  Let  us 
make  a  hkeness  of  one  who  hunts  the  moose  or  elk  in  some 
mighty  wood.  He  sees  a  Httle  dell,  mossy  and  embowered, 
where  a  rill  trickles,  babbling  to  him  of  rest  and  comfort. 
At  these  times  the  spear  of  Nimrod  himself  grows  blunt. 

So,  Nancy  wondered  sometimes  if  Persian  lamb  was  always 
quoted  at  its  market  value  by  the  hearts  that  it  covered. 

One  Thursday  evening  Nancy  left  the  store  and  turned 
across  Sixth  Avenue  westward  to  the  laundry.  She  was  ex- 
pected to  go  with  Lou  and  Dan  to  a  musical  comedy. 

Dan  was  just  coming  out  of  the  laundry  when  she  arrived. 
There  was  a  queer,  strained  look  on  his  face. 

"I  thought  I  would  drop  around  to  see  if  they  had  heard 
from  her,"  he  said. 

"Heard  from  who?"  asked  Nancy.     "Isn't  Lou  there?" 

"I  thought  you  knew,"  said  Dan.  "She  hasn't  been  here 
or  at  the  house  where  she  lived  since  Monday.  She  moved 
all  her  things  from  there.  She  told  one  of  the  girls  in  the 
laundry  she  might  be  going  to  Europe." 

"Hasn't  anybody  seen  her  anyT\^here?"  asked  Nancy. 

Dan  looked  at  her  with  his  jaws  set  grimly,  and  a  steely 
gleam  in  his  steady  gray  eyes. 

"They  told  me  in  the  laundry,"  he  said,  harshly,  "that 
they  saw  her  pass  yesterday — in  an  automobile.  With  one 
of  the  millionaires,  I  suppose,  that  you  and  Lou  were  forever 
busying  your  brains  about." 

For  the  first  time  Na\icy  quailed  before  a  man.  She  laid 
her  hand  that  trembled  slightly  on  Dan's  sleeve. 

"You've  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing  to  me,  Dan — as  if 
I  had  anything  to  do  with  it ! " 

"I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,"  said  Dan,  softening.  He 
fumbled  in  his  vest  pocket. 

"I've  got  the  tickets  for  the  show  to-night,"  he  said,  with 
a  gallant  show  of  lightness.     "If  you " 

Nancy  admired  pluck  whenever  she  saw  it. 

"I'll  go  with  you,  Dan,"  she  said. 

Three  months  went  by  before  Nancy  saw  Lou  again. 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP  181 

At  twilight  one  evening  the  shop-girl  was  hurrying  home 
along  the  border  of  a  little  quiet  park.  She  heard  her  name 
called,  and  wheeled  about  in  time  to  catch  Lou  rushing  into 
her  arms. 

After  the  first  embrace  they  drew  their  heads  back  as 
serpents  do,  ready  to  attack  or  to  charm,  with  a  thousand 
questions  trembling  on  their  swift  tongues.  And  then 
Nancy  noticed  that  prosperity  had  descended  upon  Lou, 
manifesting  itself  in  costly  furs,  flashing  gems,  and  creations 
of  the  tailors'  art. 

"You  little  fool!"  cried  Lou,  loudly  and  affectionately. 
"I  see  you  are  still  working  in  that  store,  and  as  shabby  as 
ever.  And  how  about  that  big  catch  you  were  going  to  make 
• — nothing  doing  yet,  I  suppose.?^" 

And  then  Lou  looked,  and  saw  that  something  better  than 
prosperity  had  descended  upon  Nancy — something  that 
shone  brighter  than  gems  in  her  eyes  and  redder  than  a  rose 
in  her  cheeks,  and  that  danced  like  electricity  anxious  to  be 
loosed  from  the  tip  of  her  tongue. 

"Yes,  I'm  still  in  the  store,"  said  Nancy,  "but  I'm  going 
to  leave  it  next  week.  I've  made  my  catch — the  biggest 
catch  in  the  world.  You  won't  mind  now,  Lou,  will  you? — 
I'm  going  to  be  married  to  Dan — to  Dan! — he's  my  Dan 
now — why,  Lou!" 

Around  the  corner  of  the  park  strolled  one  of  those  new- 
crop,  smooth-faced  young  policemen  that  are  making  the 
force  more  endurable — at  least  to  the  eye.  He  saw  a  woman 
with  an  expensive  fur  coat  and  diamond-ringed  hands  crouch- 
ing down  against  the  iron  fence  of  the  park  sobbing  tur- 
bulently,  while  a  slender,  plainly  dressed  working  girl  leaned 
close,  trying  to  console  her.  But  the  Gibsonian  cop,  being 
of  the  new  order,  passed  on,  pretending  not  to  notice,  for  he 
was  w^ise  enough  to  know  that  these  matters  are  beyond 
help  so  far  as  the  power  he  represents  is  concerned,  though 
he  rap  the  pavement  with  his  night-stick  till  the  sound  goes 
up  to  the  furthermost  stars. 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY 

From  Heart  of  the  West.  First  published  in  Everybody's  Magazine, 
July,  1907.  For  O.  Henry's  intimate  knowledge  of  the  life  por- 
trayed in  this  dramatic  story,  see  Chapter  V  of  the  0.  Henry  Biog- 
raphy.  The  style  alone,  however,  is  proof  that  he  does  not  write  from 
hearsay  or  book  sources.  It  is  different  from  the  New  York  style. 
Though  equally  direct  and  vivid,  it  is  wider-spaced.  It  is  conscious 
of  a  sky  above  it  rather  than  a  roof.  Forty  of  O.  Henry's  stories 
take  place  in  Texas.  When  he  was  a  prisoner  m  Ohio,  a  guard  asked 
him  why  he  was  sitting  in  a  certain  corner  of  the  yard.  "Are  you 
seeking  the  shade.^"  "No,  Mr.  Nolan,"  he  replied,  "I  like  to  sit 
over  here  because  I  feel  a  little  nearer  Texas."  This  stor3%  however. 
Jinks  him  interestingly  to  Greensboro,  his  birthplace.  His  school- 
mates remember  how  at  the  age  of  ten  he  used  to  sing  or  shout  a 
Negro  song  running, 

*Tf  you  don't  stop  fooling  with  my  Lula 
I  tell  you  what  I'll  do ; 
I'll  feel  around  your  heart  with  a  razor 
And  I'll  cut  your  liver  out  too." 

A  slightly  different  version,  from  East  Tennessee,  may  be  found  in 
The  Journal  of  American  Folk-Lore,  April-June,  1915,  page  184. 
Note  how  a  fragment  of  this  stanza  with  its  ominous  "and  so  on" 
is  used  to  foreshadow  without  revealing  the  tragic  ending  of  the 
story,  and  how  at  the  close  the  same  fragment  recurs  but  without 
"and  so  on" — there  was  no  need  of  it. 

The  Cisco  Kid  had  killed  six  men  in  more  or  less 
fair  scrimmages,  had  murdered  twice  as  many  (mostly 
Mexicans),  and  had  winged  a  larger  number  whom  he 
modestly  forbore  to  count.  Therefore  a  woman  loved 
him- 

182 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY  183 

The  Kid  was  twenty-five,  looked  twenty;  and  a  careful 
insurance  company  would  have  estimated  the  probable  time 
of  his  demise  at,  say,  twenty-six.  His  habitat  was  anywhere 
between  the  Frio  and  the  Rio  Grande.  He  killed  for  the  love 
of  it — because  he  was  quick-tempered — to  avoid  arrest — 
for  his  own  amusement — any  reason  that  came  to  his  mind 
w^ould  suflfice.  He  had  escaped  capture  because  he  could 
shoot  five-sixths  of  a  second  sooner  than  any  sheriff  or  ranger 
in  the  service,  and  because  he  rode  a  speckled  roan  horse  that 
knew  every  cow-path  in  the  mesquite  and  pear  thickets  from 
San  Antonio  to  Matamoras. 

Tonia  Perez,  the  girl  who  loved  the  Cisco  Kid,  was  half 
Carmen,  half  Madonna,  and  the  rest — oh,  yes,  a  woman  who 
is  half  Carmen  and  half  Madonna  can  always  be  something 
more — the  rest,  let  us  say,  was  humming-bird.  She  lived 
in  a  grass-roofed  jacal  near  a  little  Mexican  settlement  at  the 
Lone  Wolf  Crossing  of  the  Frio.  With  her  lived  a  father  oi 
grandfather,  a  lineal  Aztec,  somewhat  less  than  a  thousand 
years  old,  who  herded  a  hundred  goats  and  lived  in  a  con- 
tinuous drunken  dream  from  drinking  mescal.  Back  of  the 
jacal  a  tremendous  forest  of  bristling  pear,  twenty  feet  high 
at  its  worst,  crowded  almost  to  its  door.  It  was  along  the 
bewildering  maze  of  this  spinous  thicket  that  the  speckled 
roan  would  bring  the  Kid  to  see  his  girl.  And  once,  clinging 
like  a  lizard  to  the  ridge-pole,  high  up  under  the  peaked 
grass  roof,  he  had  heard  Tonia,  with  her  Madonna  face 
and  Carmen  beauty  and  humming-bird  soul,  parley  with  the 
sheriff's  posse,  denying  knowledge  of  her  man  in  soft  melange 
of  Spanish  and  English. 

One  day  the  adjutant-general  of  the  State,  who  is,  ex 
officio,  commander  of  the  ranger  forces,  wrote  some  sarcastic 
lines  to  Captain  Duval  of  Company  X,  stationed  at  Laredo, 
relative  to  the  serene  and  undisturbed  existence  led  by  mur- 
derers and  desperadoes  in  the  said  captain's  territory. 

The  captain  turned  the  color  of  brick  dust  under  his 
tan,  and  forwarded  the  letter,  after  adding  a  few  comments, 
per   ranger   Private   Bill   Adamson,   to  ranger  Lieutenant 


184  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Sandridge,  camped  at  a  water  hole  on  the  Nueces  with  a 
squad  of  five  men  in  preservation  of  law  and  order. 

Lieutenant  Sandridge  turned  a  beautiful  couleur  de  rose 
through  his  ordinary  strawberry  complexion,  tucked  the  letter 
in  his  hip  pocket,  and  chewed  off  the  end  of  his  gamboge 
moustache. 

The  next  morning  he  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  alone 
to  the  Mexican  settlement  at  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing  of  the 
Frio,  twenty  miles  away. 

Six  feet  two,  blond  as  a  viking,  quiet  as  a  deacon,  dan- 
gerous as  a  machine  gun,  Sandridge  moved  among  the  jacales, 
patiently  seeking  news  of  the  Cisco  Kid. 

Far  more  than  the  law,  the  Mexicans  dreaded  the  cold 
and  certain  vengeance  of  the  lone  rider  that  the  ranger 
sought.  It  had  been  one  of  the  Kid's  pastimes  to  shoot 
Mexicans  "to  see  them  kick":  if  he  demanded  from  them 
moribund  Terpsichorean  feats,  simply  that  he  might  be  enter- 
tained, what  terrible  and  extreme  penalties  would  be  certain 
to  follow  should  they  anger  him!  One  and  all  they  lounged 
w^ith  upturned  palms  and  shrugging  shoulders,  filling  the  air 
with  "quien  sabes"  and  denials  of  the  Kid's  acquaintance. 

But  there  was  a  man  named  Fink  who  kept  a  store  at  the 
Crossing — a  man  of  many  nationalities,  tongues,  interests, 
and  ways  of  thinking. 

"No  use  to  ask  them  Mexicans,"  he  said  to  Sandridge. 
"They're  afraid  to  tell.  This  hombre  they  call  the  Kid — 
Goodall  is  his  name,  ain't  it? — he's  been  in  my  store  once  or 
twice.  I  have  an  idea  you  might  run  across  him  at — but 
I  guess  I  don't  keer  to  say,  myself.  I'm  two  seconds  later 
in  pulling  a  gun  than  I  used  to  be,  and  the  difference  is  worth 
thinking  about.  But  this  kid's  got  a  half-Mexican  girl  at 
the  Crossing  that  he  comes  to  see.  She  lives  in  that  jacal 
a  hundred  yards  down  the  arroyo  at  the  edge  of  the  pear. 
Maybe  she — no,  I  don't  suppose  she  would,  but  that  jacal 
would  be  a  good  place  to  watch,  anyway." 

Sandridge  rode  down  to  the  jacal  of  Perez.  The  sun  was 
low,  and  the  broad  shade  of  the  great  pear  thicket  already 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY  185 

covered  the  grass-thatched  hut.  The  goats  were  enclosed 
for  the  night  in  a  brush  corral  near  by.  A  few  kids  walked 
the  top  of  it,  nibbling  the  chaparral  leaves.  The  old  Mexi- 
can lay  upon  a  blanket  on  the  grass,  already  in  a  stupor 
from  his  mescal^  and  dreaming,  perhaps,  of  the  nights  when 
he  and  Pizarro  touched  glasses  to  their  New  World  fortunes — 
so  old  his  wrinkled  face  seemed  to  proclaim  him  to  be.  And 
in  the  door  of  the  jacal  stood  Tonia.  And  Lieutenant 
Sandridge  sat  in  his  saddle  staring  at  her  like  a  gannet 
agape  at  a  sailorman. 

The  Cisco  Kid  was  a  vain  person,  as  all  eminent  and  suc- 
cessful assassins  are,  and  his  bosom  would  have  been  ruffled 
had  he  known  that  at  a  simple  exchange  of  glances  two  per- 
sons, in  whose  minds  he  had  been  looming  large,  suddenly/ 
abandoned  (at  least  for  the  time)  all  thought  of  him. 

Never  before  had  Tonia  seen  such  a  man  as  this.  He 
seemed  to  be  made  of  sunshine  and  blood-red  tissue  and  clear 
weather.  He  seemed  to  illuminate  the  shadow  of  the  pear 
when  he  smiled,  as  though  the  sun  were  rising  again.  The 
men  she  had  known  had  been  small  and  dark.  Even  the 
Kid,  in  spite  of  his  achievements,  was  a  stripling  no  larger 
than  herself,  with  black,  straight  hair  and  a  cold,  marble 
face  that  chilled  the  noonday. 

As  for  Tonia,  though  she  sends  description  to  the  poorhouse, 
let  her  make  a  millionaire  of  your  fancy.  Her  blue-black 
hair,  smoothly  divided  in  the  middle  and  bound  close  to 
her  head,  and  her  large  eyes  full  of  the  Latin  melancholy,  gave 
her  the  Madonna  touch.  Her  motions  and  air  spoke  of  the 
concealed  fire  and  the  desire  to  charm  that  she  had  inherited 
from  the  gitanas  of  the  Basque  province.  As  for  the  hum- 
ming-bird part  of  her,  that  dwelt  in  her  heart;  you  could  not 
perceive  it  unless  her  bright  red  skirt  and  dark  blue  blouse 
gave  you  a  symbolic  hint  of  the  vagarious  bird. 

The  newly  lighted  sun-god  asked  for  a  drink  of  water. 
Tonia  brought  it  from  the  red  jar  hanging  under  the  brush 
shelter.  Sandridge  considered  it  necessary  to  dismount  so 
as  to  lessen  the  trouble  of  her  ministrations. 


186  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

I  play  no  spy;  nor  do  I  assume  to  master  the  thoughts  of 
any  human  heart;  but  I  assert,  by  the  chronicler's  right,  that 
before  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  sped,  Sandridge  was  teaching 
her  how  to  plait  a  six-strand  rawhide  stake-rope,  and  Tonia 
had  explained  to  him  that  were  it  not  for  her  little  English 
book  that  the  peripatetic  padre  had  given  her  and  the  little 
crippled  chivo,  that  she  fed  from  a  bottle,  she  would  be  very, 
very  lonely  indeed. 

Which  leads  to  a  suspicion  that  the  Kid's  fences  needed  re- 
pairing, and  that  the  adjutant-general's  sarcasm  had  faller* 
upon  unproductive  soil. 

In  his  camp  by  the  water  hole  Lieutenant  Sandridge  an- 
nounced and  reiterated  his  intention  of  either  causing  the 
Cisco  Kid  to  nibble  the  black  loam  of  the  Frio  country  prair- 
ies or  of  haling  him  before  a  judge  and  jury.  That  sounded 
business-like.  Twice  a  week  he  rode  over  to  the  Lone  Wolt 
Crossing  of  the  Frio,  and  directed  Tonia's  slim,  slightly 
lemon-tinted  fingers  among  the  intricacies  of  the  slowly  grow- 
ing lariata.  A  six-strand  plait  is  hard  to  learn  and  easy  to 
teach. 

The  ranger  knew  that  he  might  find  the  Kid  there  at  any 
visit.  He  kept  his  armament  ready,  and  had  a  frequent 
eye  for  the  pear  thicket  at  the  rear  of  the  jacal.  Thus  he 
might  bring  down  the  kite  and  the  humming-bird  with  one 
stone. 

While  the  sunny-haired  ornithologist  was  pursuing  his 
studies  the  Cisco  Kid  was  also  attending  to  his  professional 
duties.  He  moodily  shot  up  a  saloon  in  a  small  cow  village 
on  Quintana  Creek,  killed  the  town  marshal  (plugging  him 
neatly  in  the  center  of  his  tin  badge),  and  then  rode  away, 
morose  and  unsatisfied.  No  true  artist  is  uplifted  by  shoot- 
ing an  aged  man  carrying  an  old-style  .38  bulldog. 

On  his  way  the  Kid  suddenly  experienced  the  yearning 
that  all  men  feel  when  wrong-doing  loses  its  keen  edge  of  de- 
light. He  yearned  for  the  woman  he  loved  to  reassure  him 
that  she  was  his  in  spite  of  it.  He  wanted  her  to  call  his 
bloodthirstiness    bravery    and    his    cruelty    devotion.     He 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY  187 

wanted  Tonia  to  bring  him  water  from  the  red  jug  under  the 
brush  shelter,  and  tell  him  how  the  chivo  was  thriving  on  the 
bottle. 

The  Kid  turned  the  speckled  roan's  head  up  the  ten-mile 
pear  flat  that  stretches  along  the  Arroyo  Hondo  until  it  ends 
at  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing  of  the  Frio.  The  roan  whickered; 
for  he  had  a  sense  of  locality  and  direction  equal  to  that  of  a 
belt-line  street-car  horse;  and  he  knew  he  would  soon  be 
nibbling  the  rich  mesquite  grass  at  the  end  of  a  forty -foot 
stake  rope  while  Ulysses  rested  his  head  in  Circe's  straw- 
roofed  hut. 

More  weird  and  lonesome  than  the  journey  of  an  Ama- 
zonian explorer  is  the  ride  of  one  through  a  Texas  pear  flat. 
With  dismal  monotony  and  startling  variety  the  uncanny  and 
multiform  shapes  of  the  cacti  lift  their  twisted  trunks,  and 
fat,  bristly  hands  to  encumber  the  way.  The  demon  plant, 
appearing  to  live  without  soil  or  rain,  seems  to  taunt  the 
parched  traveler  with  its  lush  gray  greenness.  It  warps  itself 
a  thousand  times  about  what  look  to  be  open  and  inviting 
paths,  only  to  lure  the  rider  into  blind  and  impassable  spine- 
defended  "bottoms  of  the  bag,"  leaving  him  to  retreat,  if  he 
can,  with  the  points  of  the  compass  whirling  in  his  head. 

To  be  lost  in  the  pear  is  to  die  almost  the  death  of  the  thief 
on  the  cross,  pierced  by  nails  and  with  grotesque  shapes  of 
all  the  fiends  hovering  about. 

But  it  was  not  so  with  the  Kid  and  his  mount.  Winding, 
twisting,  circling,  tracing  the  most  fantastic  and  bewildering 
trail  ever  picked  out,  the  good  roan  lessened  the  distance  to 
the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing  with  every  coil  and  turn  that  he 
made. 

While  they  fared  the  Kid  sang.  He  knew  but  one  tune  and 
he  sang  it,  as  he  knew  but  one  code  and  lived  it,  and  but  one 
girl  and  loved  her.  He  was  a  single-minded  man  of  conven- 
tional ideas.  He  had  a  voice  like  a  coyote  with  bronchitis, 
but  whenever  he  chose  to  sing  his  song  he  sang  it.  It  was  a 
conventional  song  of  the  camps  and  trail,  running  at  its  be- 
ginning as  near  as  may  be  to  these  words: 


188  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Don't  you  monkey  with  my  Lulu  girl 
Or  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do 

and  so  on.    The  roan  was  inured  to  it,  and  did  not  mind 

But  even  the  poorest  singer  will,  after  a  certain  time,  gain 
his  own  consent  to  refrain  from  contributing  to  the  world's 
noises.  So  the  Kid,  by  the  time  he  was  within  a  mile  or  two 
of  Tonia's  jacal,  had  reluctantly  allowed  his  song  to  die  away 
— not  because  his  vocal  performance  had  become  less  charm- 
ing to  his  own  ears,  but  because  his  laryngeal  muscles  were 
aweary. 

As  though  he  were  in  a  circus  ring  the  speckled  roan 
wheeled  and  danced  through  the  labyrinth  of  pear  until  at 
length  his  rider  knew  by  certain  landmarks  that  the  Lone 
Wolf  Crossing  was  close  at  hand.  Then,  where  the  pear  was 
thinner,  he  caught  sight  of  the  grass  roof  of  the  jacal,  and 
the  hackberry  tree  in  the  edge  of  the  arroyo.  A  few  yards 
farther  the  Kid  stopped  the  roan — and  gazed  intently  through 
the  prickly  openings.  Then  he  dismounted,  dropped  the 
roan's  reins,  and  proceeded  on  foot,  stooping  and  silent,  like 
an  Indian.  The  roan,  knowing  his  part,  stood  still,  making 
no  sound. 

The  Kid  crept  noiselessly  to  the  very  edge  of  the  pear 
thicket  and  reconnoitered  between  the  leaves  of  a  clump  of 
cactus. 

Ten  yards  from  his  hiding-place,  in  the  shade  of  the  jacal, 
sat  his  Tonia  calmly  plaiting  a  rawhide  lariat.  So  far  she 
might  surely  escape  condemnation;  women  have  been  known, 
from  time  to  time,  to  engage  in  more  mischievous  occupations. 
But  if  all  must  be  told,  there  is  to  be  added  that  her  head 
reposed  against  the  broad  and  comfortable  chest  of  a  tall 
red-and-yellow  man,  and  that  his  arm  was  about  her,  guiding 
her  nimble  small  fingers  that  required  so  many  lessons  at  the 
intricate  six-strand  plait. 

Sandridge  glanced  quickly  at  the  dark  mass  of  pear  when 
he  heard  a  slight  squeaking  sound  that  was  not  altogether 
unfamiliar.    A  gun-scabbard  will  make  that  sound  when  one 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY  189 

grasps  the  handle  of  a  six-shooter  suddenly.  But  the  sound 
was  not  repeated;  and  Tonia's  fingers  needed  close  atten- 
tion. 

And  then,  in  the  shadow  of  death,  they  began  to  talk  of 
their  love;  and  in  the  still  July  afternoon  every  word  they 
uttered  reached  the  ears  of  the  Kid. 

"Remember,  then,"  said  Tonia,  "you  must  not  come  again 
until  I  send  for  you.  Soon  he  will  be  here.  A  vaquero  at  the 
tienda  said  to-day  he  saw  him  on  the  Guadalupe  three  days 
ago.  When  he  is  that  near  he  always  comes.  If  he  comes 
and  finds  you  here  he  will  kill  you.  So,  for  my  sake,  you 
must  come  no  more  until  I  send  you  the  word." 

"All  right,"  said  the  ranger.     "And  then  what.?" 

"And  then,"  said  the  girl,  "you  must  bring  your  men  here 
and  kill  him.     If  not,  he  will  kill  you." 

"He  ain't  a  man  to  surrender,  that's  sure,"  said  Sandridge. 
"It's  kill  or  be  killed  for  the  oflficer  that  goes  up  against  Mr. 
Cisco  Kid." 

"He  must  die,"  said  the  girl.  "Otherwise  there  will  not 
be  any  peace  in  the  world  for  thee  and  me.  He  has  killed 
many.  Let  him  so  die.  Bring  your  men,  and  give  him  no 
chance  to  escape." 

"You  used  to  think  right  much  of  him,"  said  Sandridge^ 

Tonia  dropped  the  lariat,  twisted  herself  around,  and 
curved  a  lemon-tinted  arm  over  the  ranger's  shoulder. 

"But  then,"  she  murmured  in  liquid  Spanish,  "I  had  not 
beheld  thee,  thou  great,  red  mountain  of  a  man !  And  thou 
art  kind  and  good,  as  well  as  strong.  Could  one  choose  him, 
knowing  thee  ?  Let  him  die ;  for  then  I  will  not  be  filled  with 
fear  by  day  and  night  lest  he  hurt  thee  or  me." 

"How  can  I  know  when  he  comes? "  asked  Sandridge. 

"When  he  comes,"  said  Tonia,  "he  remains  two  days, 
sometimes  three.  Gregorio,  the  small  son  of  old  Luisa,  the 
lavandera,  has  a  swift  pony.  I  will  write  a  letter  to  thee 
and  send  it  by  him,  saying  how  it  will  be  best  to  come  upon 
him.  By  Gregorio  will  the  letter  come.  And  bring  many 
men  with  thee,  and  have  much  care,  oh,  dear  red  one,  for  the 


190  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

rattlesnake  is  not  quicker  to  strike  than  is  'El  Chivato,*  as  they 
call  him,  to  send  a  ball  from  his  pistola.'' 

"The  Kid's  handy  with  his  gun,  sure  enough,"  admitted 
Sandridge,  "but  when  I  come  for  him  I  shall  come  alone 
I'll  get  him  by  myself  or  not  at  all.  The  Cap  wrote  one  or 
two  things  to  me  that  make  me  want  to  do  the  trick  without 
any  help.  You  let  me  know  when  Mr.  Kid  arrives,  and  I'll 
do  the  rest." 

"I  will  send  you  the  message  by  the  boy  Gregorio,"  said 
the  girl.  "I  knew  you  were  braver  than  that  small  slayer  of 
men  who  never  smiles.  How  could  I  ever  have  thought  I 
cared  for  him.f^" 

It  was  time  for  the  ranger  to  ride  back  to  his  camp  on  the 
water  hole.  Before  he  mounted  his  horse  he  raised  the 
slight  form  of  Tonia  with  one  arm  high  from  the  earth  for  a 
parting  salute.  The  drowsy  stillness  of  the  torpid  summer 
air  still  lay  thick  upon  the  dreaming  afternoon.  The  smoke 
from  the  fire  in  the  jacal,  where  the  frijoles  blubbered  in  the 
iron  pot,  rose  straight  as  a  plumb-line  above  the  clay-daubed 
chimney.  No  sound  or  movement  disturbed  the  serenity  of 
the  dense  pear  thicket  ten  yards  away. 

When  the  form  of  Sandridge  had  disappeared,  loping  his 
big  dun  down  the  steep  banks  of  the  Frio  crossing,  the  Kid 
crept  back  to  his  own  horse,  mounted  him,  and  rode  back 
along  the  tortuous  trail  he  had  come. 

But  not  far.  He  stopped  and  waited  in  the  silent  depths 
of  the  pear  until  half  an  hour  had  passed.  And  then  Tonia 
heard  the  high,  untrue  notes  of  his  unmusical  singing  coming 
nearer  and  nearer;  and  she  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  pear  to  meet 
him. 

The  Kid  seldom  smiled;  but  he  smiled  and  waved  his  hat 
when  he  saw  her.  He  dismounted,  and  his  girl  sprang  into 
his  arms.  The  Kid  looked  at  her  fondly.  His  thick,  black 
hair  clung  to  his  head  like  a  wrinkled  mat.  The  meeting 
brought  a  slight  ripple  of  some  undercurrent  of  feeling  to  his 
smooth,  dark  face  that  was  usually  as  motionless  as  a  clay 
mask. 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY  191 

**How's  my  girl?"  he  asked,  holding  her  close. 

"Sick  of  waiting  so  long  for  you,  dear  one,"  she  answered. 
"My  eyes  are  dim  with  always  gazing  into  that  devil's  pin- 
cushion through  which  you  come.  And  I  can  see  into  it 
such  a  little  way,  too.  But  you  are  here,  beloved  one,  and 
I  will  not  scold.  Que  mal  muchacho  !  not  to  come  to  see  your 
alma  more  often.  Go  in  and  rest,  and  let  me  water  your  horse 
and  stake  him  with  the  long  rope.  There  is  cool  water  in  the 
jar  for  you." 

The  Kid  kissed  her  affectionately. 

"  Not  if  the  court  knows  itself  do  I  let  a  lady  stake  my  horse 
for  me,"  said  he.  "But  if  you'll  run  in,  chica,  and  throw  a  pot 
of  coffee  together  while  I  attend  to  the  caballo,  I'll  be  a  good 
deal  obliged." 

Besides  his  marksmanship  the  Kid  had  another  attribute 
for  which  he  admired  himself  greatly.  He  was  muy  cahallero, 
as  the  Mexicans  express  it,  where  the  ladies  were  concerned. 
For  them  he  had  always  gentle  words  and  consideration. 
He  could  not  have  spoken  a  harsh  word  to  a  woman.  He 
might  ruthlessly  slay  their  husbands  and  brothers,  but  he 
could  not  have  laid  the  weight  of  a  finger  in  anger  upon  a 
woman.  Wherefore  many  of  that  interesting  division  of 
humanity  who  had  come  under  the  spell  of  his  politeness  de- 
clared their  disbelief  in  the  stories  circulated  about  Mr,  Kid. 
One  shouldn't  believe  everything  one  heard,  they  said. 
When  confronted  by  their  indignant  men  folk  with  proof  of 
the  caballero's  deeds  of  infamy,  they  said  maybe  he  had  been 
driven  to  it,  and  that  he  knew  how  to  treat  a  lady,  anyhow. 

Considering  this  extremely  courteous  idiosyncrasy  of  the 
Kid  and  the  pride  that  he  took  in  it,  one  can  perceive  that 
the  solution  of  the  problem  that  was  presented  to  him  by 
what  he  saw  and  heard  from  his  hiding-place  in  the  pear  that 
afternoon  (at  least  as  to  one  of  the  actors)  must  have  been 
obscured  by  difficulties.  And  yet  one  could  not  think  of  the 
Kid  overlooking  little  matters  of  that  kind. 

At  the  end  of  the  short  twilight  they  gathered  around  a  sup- 
per offrijolesy  goat  steaks,  canned  peaches,  and  coffee,  by  the 


192  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

light  of  a  lantern  in  the  jacal.  Afterward,  the  ancestor,  his 
flock  corraled,  smoked  a  cigarette  and  became  a  mummy  in  a 
gray  blanket.  Tonia  washed  the  few  dishes  while  the  Kid 
dried  them  with  the  flour-sacking  towel.  Her  eyes  shone; 
she  chatted  volubly  of  the  inconsequent  happenings  of  her 
small  world  since  the  Kid's  last  visit;  it  was  as  all  his  other 
home-comings  had  been. 

Then  outside  Tonia  sw^ung  in  a  grass  hammock  with  her 
guitar  and  sang  sad  canciones  de  amor. 

*'Do  you  love  me  just  the  same,  old  girl.^^"  asked  the  Kid, 
hunting  for  his  cigarette  papers. 

"Always  the  same,  little  one,'*  said  Tonia,  her  dark  eyes 
lingering  upon  him. 

"I  must  go  over  to  Fink's,"  said  the  Kid,  rising,  "for  some 
tobacco.  I  thought  I  had  another  sack  in  my  coat.  I'll  be 
back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"Hasten,"  said  Tonia,  "and  tell  me — how  long  shall  I  call 
you  my  own  this  time.^  Will  you  be  gone  again  to-morrow, 
leaving  me  to  grieve,  or  will  you  be  longer  with  your  Tonia .^ " 

"Oh,  I  might  stay  two  or  three  days  this  trip,"  said  the 
Kid,  yawning.  "I've  been  on  the  dodge  for  a  month,  and 
I'd  like  to  rest  up." 

He  was  gone  half  an  hour  for  his  tobacco.  When  he  re- 
turned Tonia  was  still  lying  in  the  hammock. 

"It's  funny,"  said  the  Kid,  "how  I  feel.  I  feel  like  there 
was  somebody  lying  behind  every  bush  and  tree  waiting  to 
shoot  me.  I  never  had  mullygrubs  like  them  before.  May- 
be it's  one  of  them  presumptions.  I've  got  half  a  notion  to 
light  out  in  the  morning  before  day.  The  Guadalupe  coun- 
try is  burning  up  about  that  old  Dutchman  I  plugged  down 
there." 

"You  are  not  afraid — no  one  could  make  my  brave  little 
one  fear." 

"Well,  I  haven't  been  usually  regarded  as  a  jack-rabbit 
when  it  comes  to  scrapping;  but  I  don't  want  a  posse  smoking 
me  out  when  I'm  in  your  jacal.  Somebody  might  get  hurt 
that  oughtn't  to." 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY  193 

''Remain  with  your  Tonia;  no  one  will  find  you  here." 
The  Kid  looked  keenly  into  the  shadows  up  and  down  the 
arroyo  and  toward  the  dim  lights  of  the  Mexican  village. 
"I'll  see  how  it  looks  later  on,"  was  his  decision. 

At  midnight  a  horseman  rode  into  the  rangers'  camp, 
blazing  his  way  by  noisy  "halloes"  to  indicate  a  pacific 
mission.  Sandridge  and  one  or  two  others  turned  out  to  in- 
vestigate the  row.  The  rider  announced  himself  to  be  Do- 
mingo Sales,  from  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing.  He  bore  a  letter 
for  Senor  Sandridge.  Old  Luisa,  the  lavandera,  had  per- 
suaded him  to  bring  it,  he  said,  her  son  Gregorio  being  too  ill 
of  a  fever  to  ride. 

Sandridge  lighted  the  camp  lantern  and  read  the  letter. 
These  were  its  words : 

Dear  One:  He  has  come.  Hardly  had  you  ridden  away  when  he 
came  out  of  the  pear.  When  he  first  talked  he  said  he  would  stay 
three  days  or  more.  Then  as  it  grew  later  he  was  like  a  wolf  or  a  fox, 
and  walked  about  without  rest,  looking  and  listening.  Soon  he  said 
he  must  leave  before  daylight  when  it  is  dark  and  stillest.  And  then 
he  seemed  to  suspect  that  I  be  not  true  to  him.  He  looked  at  me  so 
strange  that  I  am  frightened.  I  swear  to  him  that  I  love  him,  his 
own  Tonia.  Last  of  all  he  said  I  must  prove  to  him  I  am  true.  He 
thinks  that  even  now  men  are  waiting  to  kill  him  as  he  rides  from  my 
house.  To  escape  he  says  he  will  dress  in  my  clothes,  my  red  skirt 
and  the  blue  waist  I  wear  and  the  brown  mantilla  over  the  head,  and 
thus  ride  away.  But  before  that  he  says  that  I  must  put  on  his 
clothes,  his  pantalones  and  camisa  and  hat,  and  ride  away  on  his 
horse  from  the  jacal  as  far  as  the  big  road  beyond  the  crossing  and 
back  again.  This  before  he  goes,  so  he  can  tell  if  I  am  true  and  if 
men  are  hidden  to  shoot  him.  It  is  a  terrible  thing.  An  hour  before 
daybreak  this  is  to  be.  Come,  my  dear  one,  and  kill  this  man  and 
take  me  for  your  Tonia.  Do  not  try  to  take  hold  of  him  alive,  but 
kill  him  quickly.  Knowing  all,  you  should  do  that.  You  must 
come  long  before  the  time  and  hide  yourself  in  the  little  shed  near  the 
jacal  where  the  wagon  and  saddles  are  kept.  It  is  dark  in  there. 
He  will  wear  my  red  skirt  and  blue  waist  and  brown  mantilla.  I 
send  you  a  hundred  kisses.     Come  surely  and  shoot  quickly  and 

^*"^^g^t-  Thine  Own  Tonia. 


194  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Sandridge  quickly  explained  to  his  men  the  official  part 
of  the  missive.  The  rangers  protested  against  his  going 
alone. 

"I'll  get  him  easy  enough,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "The 
girl's  got  him  trapped.  And  don't  even  think  he'll  get  the 
drop  on  me." 

Sandridge  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  to  the  Lone  Wolf 
Crossing.  He  tied  his  big  dun  in  a  clump  of  brush  on  the 
arroyo,  took  his  Winchester  from  its  scabbard,  and  care- 
fully approached  the  Perez  jacal.  There  was  only  the  half  of 
a  high  moon  drifted  over  by  ragged,  milk-white  gulf  clouds. 

The  wagon-shed  was  an  excellent  place  for  ambush;  and 
the  ranger  got  inside  it  safely.  In  the  black  shadow  of  the 
brush  shelter  in  front  of  the  jacal  he  could  see  a  horse  tied 
and  hear  him  impatiently  pawing  the  hard-trodden  earth. 

He  waited  almost  an  hour  before  two  figures  came  out  of 
the  jacal.  One,  in  man's  clothes,  quickly  mounted  the  horse 
and  galloped  past  the  wagon-shed  toward  the  crossing  and 
village.  And  then  the  other  figure,  in  skirt,  waist,  and  man- 
tilla over  its  head,  stepped  out  into  the  faint  moonlight,  gaz- 
ing after  the  rider.  Sandridge  thought  he  would  take  his 
chance  then  before  Tonia  rode  back.  He  fancied  she  might 
not  care  to  see  it. 

"Throw  up  your  hands,"  he  ordered  loudly,  stepping  out 
of  the  wagon-shed  with  his  Winchester  at  his  shoulder. 

There  was  a  quick  turn  of  the  figure,  but  no  movement 
to  obey,  so  the  ranger  pumped  in  the  bullets — one — two — 
three — and  then  twice  more;  for  you  never  could  be  too  sure 
of  bringing  down  the  Cisco  Kid.  There  was  no  danger  of 
missing  at  ten  paces,  even  in  that  half  moonlight. 

The  old  ancestor,  asleep  on  his  blanket,  was  awakened  by 
the  shots.  Listening  further,  he  heard  a  great  cry  from  some 
man  in  mortal  distress  or  anguish,  and  rose  up  grumbling  at 
the  disturbing  ways  of  moderns. 

The  tall,  red  ghost  of  a  man  burst  into  the  jacal,  reaching 
one  hand,  shaking  like  a  tule  reed,  for  the  lantern  hanging 
on  its  nail.     The  other  spread  a  letter  on  the  table. 


THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY  195 

"Look  at  this  letter,  Perez,"  cried  the  man.  "Who  wrote 
it?" 

"Ah,  Dios!  it  is  Senor  Sandridge,"  mumbled  the  old  man, 
approaching.  '' Pues,  senor,  that  letter  was  written  by  ^El 
ChivatOy'  as  he  is  called — by  the  man  of  Tonia.  They  say 
he  is  a  bad  man;  I  do  not  know.  While  Tonia  slept  he  wrote 
the  letter  and  sent  it  by  this  old  hand  of  mine  to  Domingo 
Sales  to  be  brought  to  you.  Is  there  anything  wrong  in  the 
letter?  I  am  very  old;  and  I  did  not  know.  Valgame 
Dios!  it  is  a  very  foolish  world;  and  there  is  nothing  in  the 
house  to  drink — nothing  to  drink." 

Just  then  all  that  Sandridge  could  think  of  to  do  was  to  go 
outside  and  throw  himself  face  downward  in  the  dust  by  the 
side  of  his  humming-bird,  of  whom  not  a  feather  fluttered. 
He  was  not  a  caballero  by  instinct,  and  he  could  not  under- 
stand the  niceties  of  revenge. 

A  mile  away  the  rider  who  had  ridden  past  the  wagon- 
shed  struck  up  a  harsh,  untuneful  song,  the  words  of  which 
began: 

Don't  you  monkey  with  my  Lulu  girl 
Or  I'll  tell  you  what  I'U  do 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR 

From  Whirligigs.  First  published  in  The  American  Magazine, 
August,  1907.  O.  Henry  never  treated  a  bigger  theme  than  the 
subject  that  gives  unity  to  this  story.  On  a  first  reading  the  gist 
of  it  would  seem  to  be  that  while  love  may  of  course  be  based  on 
community  of  taste,  of  feeling,  of  experience,  it  cannot  be  based  on 
community  of  guilt;  as  soon  as  the  engaged  murderers  find  that  they 
are  not  murderers,  it's  all  off  with  them.  But  this  theme,  touched 
upon  in  the  earlier  Blind  Man's  Holiday,  is  not  the  theme  of  The 
World  and  the  Door.  This  is  proved  by  the  title,  by  the  develop- 
ment of  the  plot,  and  by  what  O.  Henry  himself  said  many  times 
about  the  story.  The  real  theme  is  that  in  the  normal  man  and 
woman  the  desire  for  the  larger  fellowship  of  the  world,  for  mixmg 
with  folks,  for  having  friends  and  neighbors,  is  innate  and  irre- 
sistible. Love  itself  when  pitted  against  it — certainly  a  love  like 
that  of  Merriam  and  Mrs.  Conant — will  be  found  the  weaker 
passion.  Community  of  supposed  guilt,  the  dream  of  being  a  world 
to  themselves,  made  the  two  lovers  shut  out  the  larger  world  and 
close  the  door — as  they  thought.  But  with  the  consciousness  of 
innocence  there  came  to  both  the  inspiriting  vision  of  a  slowly  open- 
ing door.  "The  whole  out-of-doors  is  mine  once  more"  is  what 
throbbed  through  Merriam's  pulses,  and  Mrs.  Conant's  thoughts 
reverted  instantly  and  exultantly  to  the  world  that  she  thought  she 
had  shut  out,  to  domestic  and  neighborly  things,  to  the  chit-chat  of 
department  stores,  to  an  apron  for  the  cook,  patterns  for  sleeves, 
callers,  tea.  That  italicized  paragraph  is  one  of  O.  Henry's  triumphs, 
an  illustration  of  how  often  his  romanticism  is  only  realism  touched 
with  understanding.  This  was  the  story  that  he  wished  to  drama- 
tize so  as  to  stage  for  all  time  the  inextinguishable  desire  of  those 
down  and  out  to  get  back  to  civilization.  "O.  Henry  talked  for 
hours  about  this  theme,"  says  Mr.  Oilman  Hall.  "He  wrote  me," 
says  Mrs.  Porter,  "that  two  acts  of  the  play.  The  World  and  the  Door, 
were  just  about  finished.  As  you  say,  it  was  to  show  that  every 
human  soul  has  this  tendency  toward  respectability.  It  was  greater, 
he  insisted,  than  love." 

196 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR  197 

A  FAVORITE  dodge  to  get  your  story  read  by  the  public  is 
to  assert  that  it  is  true,  and  then  add  that  Truth  is  stranger 
than  Fiction.  I  do  not  know  if  the  yarn  I  am  anxious  for 
you  to  read  is  true;  but  the  Spanish  purser  of  the  fruit  steamer 
El  Carrero  swore  to  me  by  the  shrine  of  Santa  Guadalupe 
that  he  had  the  facts  from  the  U.  S.  vice-consul  at  La  Paz — 
a  person  who  could  not  possibly  have  been  cognizant  of  half 
of  them. 

As  for  the  adage  quoted  above,  I  take  pleasure  in  punctur- 
ing it  by  affirming  that  I  read  in  a  purely  fictional  story  the 
other  day  the  hne :  **  'Be  it  so,'  said  the  policeman."  Nothing 
so  strange  has  yet  cropped  out  in  Truth. 

When  H.  Ferguson  Hedges,  millionaire  promoter,  investor, 
and  man-about-New-York,  turned  his  thoughts  upon  mat- 
ters convivial,  and  word  of  it  went  '*down  the  line,"  bouncers 
took  a  precautionary  turn  at  the  Indian  clubs,  waiters  put 
ironstone  china  on  his  favorite  tables,  cab  drivers  crowded 
close  to  the  curbstone  in  front  of  all-night  cafes,  and  careful 
cashiers  in  his  regular  haunts  charged  up  a  few  bottles  to  his 
account  by  way  of  preface  and  introduction. 

As  a  money  power  a  one-millionaire  is  of  small  account  in 
a  city  where  the  man  who  cuts  your  slice  of  beef  behind  the 
free-lunch  counter  rides  to  work  in  his  own  automobile.  But 
Hedges  spent  his  money  as  lavishly,  loudly,  and  showily  as 
though  he  were  only  a  clerk  squandering  a  week's  wages. 
And,  after  all,  the  bartender  takes  no  interest  in  your  re- 
serve fund.  He  would  rather  look  you  up  on  his  cash  register, 
than  in  Bradstreet. 

On  the  evening  that  the  material  allegation  of  facts  begins, 
Hedges  was  bidding  dull  care  begone  in  the  company  of 
five  or  six  good  fellows — acquaintances  and  friends  who  had 
gathered  in  his  wake. 

Among  them  were  two  younger  men — Ralph  Merriam,  a 
broker,  and  Wade,  his  friend. 

Two  deep-sea  cabmen  were  chartered.  At  Columbus 
Circle  they  hove  to  long  enough  to  revile  the  statue  of  the 


198  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

great  navigator,  unpatriotically  rebuking  him  for  having 
voyaged  in  search  of  land  instead  of  Hquids.  Midnight  ov"er- 
took  the  party  marooned  in  the  rear  of  a  cheap  cafe  far  up- 
town. 

Hedges  was  arrogant,  overriding,  and  quarrelsome.  He 
was  burly  and  tough,  iron-gray  but  vigorous,  "good"  for 
the  rest  of  the  night.  There  was  a  dispute — about  nothing 
that  matters — and  the  five-fingered  words  were  passed — the 
words  that  represent  the  glove  cast  into  the  lists.  Merriam 
played  the  role  of  the  verbal  Hotspur. 

Hedges  rose  quickly,  seized  his  chair,  swung  it  once  and 
smashed  wildly  down  at  Merriam's  head.  Merriam  dodged, 
drew  a  small  revolver  and  shot  Hedges  in  the  chest.  The 
leading  roysterer  stumbled,  fell  in  a  wry  heap,  and  lay  still. 

Wade,  a  commuter,  had  formed  that  habit  of  promptness. 
He  juggled  Merriam  out  a  side  door,  walked  him  to  the 
corner,  ran  him  a  block,  and  caught  a  hansom.  They  rode 
five  minutes  and  then  got  out  on  a  dark  corner  and  dismissed 
the  cab.  Across  the  street  the  lights  of  a  small  saloon  be- 
trayed its  hectic  hospitality. 

*'Go  in  the  back  room  of  that  saloon,"  said  Wade,  "and 
wait.  I'll  go  find  out  what's  doing  and  let  you  know.  Yov 
may  take  two  drinks  while  I  am  gone — no  more." 

At  ten  minutes  to  one  o'clock  Wade  returned. 

"Brace  up,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "The  ambulance  got  there 
just  as  I  did.  The  doctor  says  he's  dead.  You  may  have 
one  more  drink.  You  let  me  run  this  thing  for  you.  You've 
got  to  skip.  I  don't  believe  a  chair  is  legally  a  deadly  weapon. 
You've  got  to  make  tracks,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Merriam  complained  of  the  cold  querulously,  and  asked 
for  another  drink.  "Did  you  notice  what  big  veins  he  had 
on  the  back  of  his  hands?"  he  asked.  "I  never  could  stand 
— I  never  could " 

"Take  one  more,"  said  Wade,  "and  then  come  on.  I'll 
see  you  through." 

Wade  kept  his  promise  so  well  that  at  eleven  o'clock  the 
next  morning  Merriam,  with  a  new  suit  case  full  of  new 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR  199 

clothes  and  hair-brushes,  stepped  quietly  on  board  a  Httle 
500-ton  fruit  steamer  at  an  East  River  pier.  The  vessel 
had  brought  the  season's  first  cargo  of  limes  from  Port 
Limon,  and  was  homeward  bound.  Merriam  had  his  bank 
balance  of  $2,800  in  his  pocket  in  large  bills,  and  brief  in- 
structions to  pile  up  as  much  water  as  he  could  between  him- 
self and  New  York.     There  was  no  time  for  anything  more. 

From  Port  Limon  Merriam  worked  down  the  coast  by 
schooner  and  sloop  to  Colon,  thence  across  the  isthmus  to 
Panama,  where  he  caught  a  tramp  bound  for  Callao  and  such 
intermediate  ports  as  might  tempt  the  discursive  skipper 
from  his  course. 

It  was  at  La  Paz  that  Merriam  decided  to  land — La  Paz 
the  Beautiful,  a  little  harborless  town  smothered  in  a  living 
green  ribbon  that  banded  the  foot  of  a  cloud-piercing  moun- 
tain. Here  the  little  steamer  stopped  to  tread  water  while 
the  captain's  dory  took  him  ashore  that  he  might  feel  the 
pulse  of  the  cocoanut  market.  Merriam  went  too,  with  his 
suit  case,  and  remained. 

Kalb,  the  vice-consul,  a  Grseco -Armenian  citizen  of  the 
United  States,  born  in  Hessen-Darmstadt,  and  educated  i» 
Cincinnati  ward  primaries,  considered  all  Americans  hi* 
brothers  and  bankers.  He  attached  himself  to  Merriam 's 
elbow,  introduced  him  to  every  one  in  La  Paz  who  wore 
shoes,  borrowed  ten  dollars,  and  went  back  to  his  hammock. 

There  was  a  little  wooden  hotel  in  the  edge  of  a  banana 
grove,  facing  the  sea,  that  catered  to  the  tastes  of  the  few 
foreigners  that  had  dropped  out  of  the  world  into  the  triste 
Peruvian   town.     At   Kalb's   introductory:   "Shake   hands 

with ,"  he  had  obediently  exchanged  manual  salutations 

with  a  German  doctor,  one  French  and  two  Italian  mer- 
chants, and  three  or  four  Americans  who  were  spoken  of  as 
gold  men,  rubber  men,  mahogany  men — anything  but  men 
of  living  tissue. 

After  dinner  Merriam  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  broad  front 
galeria  with  Bibb,  a  Vermonter  interested  in  hydraulic  min- 
ing, and  smoked  and  drank  Scotch  *' smoke."     The  moonlit 


200  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

sea,  spreading  infinitely  before  him,  seemed  to  separate  him 
beyond  all  apprehension  from  his  old  life.  The  horrid 
tragedy  in  which  he  had  played  such  a  disastrous  part  now 
began,  for  the  first  time  since  he  stole  on  board  the  fruiter,  a 
wretched  fugitive,  to  lose  its  sharper  outlines.  Distance  lent 
assuagement  to  his  view.  Bibb  had  opened  the  flood-gates 
of  a  stream  of  long-dammed  discourse,  overjoyed  to  have 
captured  an  audience  that  had  not  suffered  under  a  hundred 
repetitions  of  his  views  and  theories. 

"One  year  more,"  said  Bibb,  "and  I'll  go  back  to  God's 
country.  Oh,  I  know  it's  pretty  here,  and  you  get  dolce  far 
niente  handed  to  you  in  chunks,  but  this  country  wasn't 
made  for  a  white  man  to  live  in.  You've  got  to  have  to  plug 
through  snow  now  and  then,  and  see  a  game  of  baseball  and 
wear  a  stiff  collar  and  have  a  policeman  cuss  you.  Still,  La 
Paz  is  a  good  sort  of  a  pipe-dreamy  old  hole.  And  IVIrs. 
Conant  is  here.  When  any  of  us  feels  particularly  like  jump- 
ing into  the  sea  we  rush  around  to  her  house  and  propose. 
It's  nicer  to  be  rejected  by  IVIrs.  Conant  than  it  is  to  be 
drowned.     And  they  say  drowning  is  a  delightful  sensation." 

"Many  like  her  here?"  asked  Merriam. 

"Not  anywhere,"  said  Bibb,  with  a  comfortable  sigh. 
"She's  the  only  white  woman  in  La  Paz.  The  rest  range 
from  a  dappled  dun  to  the  color  of  a  b-flat  piano  key.  She's 
been  here  a  year.  Comes  from — well,  you  know  how  a 
woman  can  talk — ask  'em  to  say  *string'  and  they'll  say 
*crow's  foot'  or  *cat's  cradle.'  Sometimes  you'd  think  she 
was  from  Oshkosh,  and  again  from  Jacksonville,  Florida,  and 
the  next  day  from  Cape  Cod." 

"Mystery.^"  ventured  Merriam. 

"M — well,  she  looks  it;  but  her  talk's  translucent  enough. 
But  that's  a  woman.  I  suppose  if  the  Sphinx  were  to  begin 
talking  she'd  merely  say:  'Goodness  me!  more  visitors  coming 
for  dinner,  and  nothing  to  eat  but  the  sand  which  is  here.' 
But  you  won't  think  about  that  when  you  meet  her,  Merriam 
You'll  propose  to  her,  too." 

To  make  a  hard  story  soft,  Merriam  did  meet  her  and  pro 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR  201 

pose  to  her.  He  found  her  to  be  a  woman  in  black  with  hair 
the  color  of  a  bronze  turkey's  wings,  and  mysterious,  remem- 
bering eyes  that — well,  that  looked  as  if  she  might  have  been 
a  trained  nurse  looking  on  when  Eve  was  created.  Her 
words  and  manner,  though,  were  translucent,  as  Bibb  had 
said.  She  spoke,  vaguely,  of  friends  in  California  and  some 
of  the  lower  parishes  in  Louisiana.  The  tropical  climate 
and  indolent  life  suited  her;  she  had  thought  of  buying  an 
orange  grove  later  on;  La  Paz,  all  in  all,  charmed  her. 

Merriam's  courtship  of  the  Sphinx  lasted  three  months, 
although  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  courting  her.  He 
was  using  her  as  an  antidote  for  remorse,  until  he  found,  too 
late,  that  he  had  acquired  the  habit.  During  that  time  he 
had  received  no  news  from  home.  Wade  did  not  know  where 
he  was;  and  he  was  not  sure  of  Wade's  exact  address,  and 
was  afraid  to  write.  He  thought  he  had  better  let  matters 
rest  as  they  were  for  a  while. 

One  afternoon  he  and  Mrs.  Conant  hired  two  ponies  and 
rode  out  along  the  mountain  trail  as  far  as  the  little  cold  river 
that  came  tumbling  down  the  foothills.  There  they  stopped 
for  a  drink,  and  Merriam  spoke  his  piece — ^he  proposed,  as 
Bibb  had  prophesied. 

Mrs.  Conant  gave  him  one  glance  of  brilliant  tenderness, 
and  then  her  face  took  on  such  a  strange,  haggard  look  that 
Merriam  was  shaken  out  of  his  intoxication  and  back  to  his 
senses. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Florence,"  he  said,  releasing  her 
hand;  "but  I'll  have  to  hedge  on  part  of  what  I  said.  I  can't 
ask  you  to  marry  me,  of  course.  I  killed  a  man  in  New  York 
— a  man  who  was  my  friend — shot  him  down — in  quite  a 
cowardly  manner,  I  understand.  Of  course,  the  drinking 
didn't  excuse  it.  Well,  I  couldn't  resist  having  my  say;  and 
I'll  always  mean  it.  I'm  here  as  a  fugitive  from  justice, 
and — I  suppose  that  ends  our  acquaintance." 

Mrs.  Conant  plucked  little  leaves  assiduously  from  the  low- 
hanging  branch  of  a  lime  tree. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  in  low  and  oddly  uneven  tones, 


202  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"but  that  depends  upon  you.  I'll  be  as  honest  as  you  were. 
I  poisoned  my  husband.  I  am  a  self-made  widow.  A  man 
cannot  love  a  murderess.  So  I  suppose  that  ends  our  ac- 
quaintance." 

She  looked  up  at  him  slow^ly.  His  face  turned  a  little 
pale,  and  he  stared  at  her  blankly,  like  a  deaf-and-dumb  man 
who  was  wondering  what  it  was  all  about. 

She  took  a  swift  step  toward  him,  with  stiffened  arms  and 
eyes  blazing. 

*' Don't  look  at  me  like  that!"  she  cried,  as  though  she 
were  in  acute  pain.  "Curse  me,  or  turn  your  back  on  me, 
but  don't  look  that  way.  Am  I  a  woman  to  be  beaten .^^  If 
I  could  show  you — here  on  my  arms,  and  on  my  back  are 
scars — and  it  has  been  more  than  a  year — scars  that  he  made 
in  his  brutal  rages.  A  holy  nun  would  have  risen  and  struck 
the  fiend  down.  Yes,  I  killed  him.  The  foul  and  horrible 
words  that  he  hurled  at  me  that  last  day  are  repeated  in  my 
ears  every  night  when  I  sleep.  And  then  came  his  blows, 
and  the  end  of  my  endurance.  I  got  the  poison  that  after- 
noon. It  was  his  custom  to  drink  every  night  in  the  library 
before  going  to  bed  a  hot  punch  made  of  rum  and  wine. 
Only  from  my  fair  hands  would  he  receive  it — because  h^ 
knew^  the  fumes  of  spirits  always  sickened  me.  That  night 
when  the  maid  brought  it  to  me  I  sent  her  dowmstairs  on  an 
errand.  Before  taking  him  his  drink  I  went  to  my  little 
private  cabinet  and  poured  into  it  more  than  a  teaspoonful 
of  tincture  of  aconite — enough  to  kill  three  men,  so  I  had 
learned.  I  had  drawn  $6,000  that  I  had  in  bank,  and  with 
that  and  a  few  things  in  a  satchel  I  left  the  house  without 
any  one  seeing  me.  As  I  passed  the  library  I  heard  him 
stagger  up  and  fall  heavily  on  a  couch.  I  took  a  night  train 
for  New  Orleans,  and  from  there  I  sailed  to  the  Bermudas. 
I  finally  cast  anchor  in  La  Paz.  And  now  what  have  you  to 
say?     Can  you  open  your  mouth .f^" 

Merriam  came  back  to  life. 

"Florence,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I  want  you.  I  don't 
care  what  youVe  done.     If  the  world " 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR  203 

"Ralph,"  she  interrupted,  almost  with  a  scream,  "be  my 
world!" 

Her  eyes  melted;  she  relaxed  magnificently  and  swayed 
toward  Merriam  so  suddenly  that  he  had  to  jump  to  catch 
her. 

Dear  me!  in  such  scenes  how  the  talk  runs  into  artificial 
prose.  But  it  can't  be  helped.  It's  the  subconscious  smell 
of  the  footHghts'  smoke  that's  in  all  of  us.  Stir  the  depths 
of  your  cook's  soul  sufficiently  and  she  will  discourse  in 
Bulwer-Lyttonese. 

Merriam  and  Mrs.  Conant  were  very  happy.  He  an- 
nounced their  engagement  at  the  Hotel  Orilla  del  Mar.  Eight 
foreigners  and  four  native  Astors  pounded  his  back  and 
shouted  insincere  congratulations  at  him.  Pedrito,  the 
Castihan-mannered  barkeep,  was  goaded  to  extra  duty  until 
his  agility  would  have  turned  a  Boston  cherry-phosphate 
clerk  a  pale  lilac  with  envy. 

They  were  both  very  happy.  According  to  the  strange 
mathematics  of  the  god  of  mutual  affinity,  the  shadows  that 
clouded  their  pasts  when  united  became  only  half  as  dense 
instead  of  darker.  They  shut  the  world  out  and  bolted  the 
doors.  Each  was  the  other's  world.  Mrs.  Conant  lived 
again.  The  remembering  look  left  her  eyes.  Merriam  was 
with  her  every  moment  that  was  possible.  On  a  little  plateau 
under  a  grove  of  palms  and  calabash  trees  they  were  going 
to  build  a  fairy  bungalow.  They  were  to  be  married  in  two 
months.  Many  hours  of  the  day  they  had  their  heads  to- 
gether over  the  house  plans.  Their  joint  capital  w^ould  set 
up  a  business  in  fruit  or  woods  that  would  yield  a  comfortable 
support.  "Good  night,  my  world,"  would  say  Mrs.  Conant 
every  evening  when  Merriam  left  her  for  his  hotel.  They 
were  very  happy.  Their  love  had,  circumstantially,  that 
element  of  melancholy  in  it  that  it  seems  to  require  to  attain 
its  supremest  elevation.  And  it  seemed  that  their  mutual 
great  misfortune  or  sin  was  a  bond  that  nothing  could  sever. 

One  day  a  steamer  hove  in  the  offing.  Bare-legged  and 
bare-shouldered  La  Paz  scampered  down  to  the  beach,  for 


204  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

the  arrival  of  a  steamer  was  their  loop-the-loop,  circus, 
Emancipation  Day,  and  four  o'clock  tea. 

When  the  steamer  was  near  enough,  wise  ones  proclaimed 
that  she  was  the  PajarOy  bound  up-coast  from  Callao  to 
Panama. 

The  Pajaro  put  on  brakes  a  mile  off  shore.  Soon  a  boat 
came  bobbing  shoreward.  Merriam  strolled  down  on  the 
beach  to  look  on.  In  the  shallow  water  the  Carib  sailors 
sprang  out  and  dragged  the  boat  with  a  mighty  rush  to  the 
firm  shingle.  Out  climbed  the  purser,  the  captain,  and  two 
passengers  ploughing  their  way  through  the  deep  sand 
toward  the  hotel.  Merriam  glanced  toward  them  with  the 
mild  interest  due  to  strangers.  There  was  something  famil- 
iar to  him  in  the  walk  of  one  of  the  passengers.  He  looked 
again,  and  his  blood  seemed  to  turn  to  strawberry  ice  cream 
in  his  veins.  Burly,  arrogant,  debonair  as  ever,  H.  Ferguson 
Hedges,  the  man  he  had  killed,  was  coming  toward  him  ten 
feet  away. 

When  Hedges  saw  Merriam  his  face  flushed  a  dark  red. 
Then  he  shouted  in  his  old,  bluff  way:  "Hello,  Merriam. 
Glad  to  see  you.  Didn't  expect  to  find  you  out  here.  Quinby, 
this  is  my  old  friend  Merriam,  of  New  York — Merriam,  Mr. 
Quinby." 

Merriam  gave  Hedges  and  then  Quinby  an  ice-cold  hand. 

"Br-r-r-r ! "  said  Hedges.  "But  you've  got  a  f rapped  flip- 
per! Man,  you're  not  well.  You're  as  yellow  as  a  China- 
man. Malarial  here.^^  Steer  us  to  a  bar  if  there  is  such  a 
thing,  and  let's  take  a  prophylactic." 

Merriam,  still  half  comatose,  led  them  toward  the  Hotel 
Orilla  del  Mar. 

"Quinby  and  I,"  explained  Hedges,  puflSng  through  the 
slippery  sand,  "are  looking  out  along  the  coast  for  some  in- 
vestments. We've  just  come  up  from  Concepcion  and  Val- 
paraiso and  Lima.  The  captain  of  this  subsidized  ferry 
boat  told  us  there  was  some  good  picking  around  here  in  silver 
mines.  So  we  got  off.  Now,  where  is  that  cafe,  Merriam? 
Oh,  in  this  portable  soda-water  pavilion?" 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR  205 

Leaving  Quinby  at  the  bar,  Hedges  drew  Merriam  aside. 

"Now,  what  does  this  mean?  "  he  said,  with  gruff  kindness. 
*'Are  you  sulking  about  that  fool  row  we  had?" 

"I  thought,"  stammered  Merriam — "I  heard — they  told 
me  you  were — that  I  had " 

'*Well,  you  didn't,  and  I'm  not,"  said  Hedges.  "That 
fool  young  ambulance  surgeon  told  Wade  I  was  a  candidate 
for  a  coffin  just  because  I'd  got  tired  and  quit  breathing.  I 
laid  up  in  a  private  hospital  for  a  month;  but  here  I  am, 
kicking  as  hard  as  ever.  Wade  and  I  tried  to  find  you,  but 
couldn't.  Now,  Merriam,  shake  hands  and  forget  it  all.  I 
was  as  much  to  blame  as  you  were;  and  the  shot  really  did 
me  good — I  came  out  of  the  hospital  as  healthy  and  fit  as  a 
cab  horse.     Come  on;  that  drink's  waiting." 

"Old  man,"  said  Merriam,  brokenly,  "I  don't  know  how 
to  thank  you — I — ^well,  you  know " 

"Oh,  forget  it,"  boomed  Hedges.  "Quinby '11  die  of  thirst 
if  we  don't  join  him." 

Bibb  was  sitting  on  the  shady  side  of  the  gallery  waiting 
for  the  eleven -o'clock  breakfast.  Presently  Merriam  came 
out  and  joined  him.     His  eye  was  strangely  bright. 

"Bibb,  my  boy,"  said  he,  slowly  waving  his  hand,  "do 
you  see  those  mountains  and  that  sea  and  sky  and  sunshine? 
— they're  mine,  Bibbsy — all  mine." 

"You  go  in,"  said  Bibb,  "and  take  eight  grains  of  quinine, 
right  away.  It  won't  do  in  this  climate  for  a  man  to  get  to 
thinking  he's  Rockefeller,  or  James  O'Neill  either." 

Inside,  the  purser  was  untying  a  great  roll  of  newspapers, 
many  of  them  weeks  old,  gathered  in  the  lower  ports  by  the 
Pajaro  to  be  distributed  at  casual  stopping-places.  Thus 
do  the  beneficent  voyagers  scatter  news  and  entertainment 
among  the  prisoners  of  sea  and  mountains. 

Tio  Pancho,  the  hotel  proprietor,  set  his  great  silver- 
rimmed  anteojos  upon  his  nose  and  divided  the  papers  into  a 
number  of  smaller  rolls.  A  barefooted  muchacho  dashed  in, 
desiring  the  post  of  messenger. 

"'Bien  venido,"'  said  Tio  Pancho.    "This  to  Senora  Conant; 


206  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

that  to  el  Doctor  S-S-Schlegel — Dios!  what  a  name  to  say  !— 
that  to  Senor  Davis — one  for  Don  Alberto.  These  two  for 
the  Casa  de  Huespedes,  Numero  6,  en  la  calle  de  las  Bnenas 
Gracias.  And  say  to  them  all,  Muchacho,  that  the  Pajaro 
sails  for  Panama  at  three  this  afternoon.  If  any  have  letters 
to  send  by  the  post,  let  them  come  quickly,  that  they  may 
first  pass  through  the  correo.'* 

IVIrs.  Conant  received  her  roll  of  newspapers  at  four  o'clock. 
The  boy  was  late  in  delivering  them,  because  he  had  been  de- 
flected from  his  duty  by  an  iguana  that  crossed  his  path  and 
to  which  he  immediately  gave  chase.  But  it  made  no  hard- 
ship, for  she  had  no  letters  to  send. 

She  was  idling  in  a  hammock  in  the  patio  of  the  house  that 
she  occupied,  half  awake,  half  happily  dreaming  of  the  para- 
dise that  she  and  Merriam  had  created  out  of  the  wrecks  of 
their  pasts.  She  was  content  now  for  the  horizon  of  that 
shimmering  sea  to  be  the  horizon  of  her  life.  They  had  shut 
out  the  w^orld  and  closed  the  door. 

Merriam  was  coming  to  her  house  at  seven,  after  his  dinner 
at  the  hotel.  She  would  put  on  a  white  dress  and  an  apricot- 
colored  lace  mantilla,  and  they  would  walk  an  hour  under 
the  cocoanut  palms  by  the  lagoon.  She  smiled  contentedly, 
and  chose  a  paper  at  random  from  the  roll  the  boy  had 
brought. 

At  first  the  words  of  a  certain  headline  of  a  Sunday  news- 
paper meant  nothing  to  her;  they  conveyed  only  a  visualized 
sense  of  familiarity.  The  largest  type  ran  thus:  "Lloyd  B. 
Conant  secures  divorce."  And  then  the  subheadings :  "Well- 
known  Saint  Louis  paint  manufacturer  wins  suit,  pleading 
one  year's  absence  of  wife."  "Her  mysterious  disappearance 
recalled."     "Nothing  has  been  heard  of  her  since." 

Twisting  herself  quickly  out  of  the  hammock,  Mrs.  Con- 
ant's  eye  soon  traversed  the  half-column  of  the  Recall. 
It  ended  thus:  "It  will  be  remembered  that  Mrs.  Conant 
diappeared  one  evening  in  March  of  last  year.  It  was  freely 
rumored  that  her  marriage  with  Lloyd  B.  Conant  resulted 
in  much  unhappiness.     Stories  were  not  wanting  to  i^e  effect^ 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR  207 

that  his  cruelty  toward  his  wife  had  more  than  once  taken 
the  form  of  physical  abuse.  After  her  departure  a  full  bottle 
of  tincture  of  aconite,  a  deadly  poison,  was  found  in  a  small 
medicine  cabinet  in  her  bedroom.  This  might  have  been  an 
indication  that  she  meditated  suicide.  It  is  supposed  that 
she  abandoned  such  an  intention  if  she  possessed  it,  and 
left  her  home  instead." 

Mrs.  Conant  slowly  dropped  the  paper,  and  sat  on  a  chair, 
clasping  her  hands  tightly. 

"Let  me  think — O  God! — let  me  think,"  she  whispered. 
**I  took  the  bottle  with  me  ...  I  threw  it  out  of  the 
window  of  the  train  .  .  .  I .  .  .  there  was  an- 
other bottle  in  the  cabinet  .  .  .  there  were  two,  side  by 
side — the  aconite — and  the  valerian  that  I  took  when  I  could 
not  sleep  ...  If  they  found  the  aconite  bottle  full,  why 
— but,  he  is  alive,  of  course — I  gave  him  only  a  harmless  dose 
of  valerian  ...  I  am  not  a  murderess  in  fact  .  .  . 
Ralph,  I — O  God,  don't  let  this  be  a  dream!" 

She  went  into  the  part  of  the  house  that  she  rented  from 
the  old  Peruvian  man  and  his  wife,  shut  the  door,  and  walked 
up  and  down  her  room  swiftly  and  feverishly  for  half  an  hour. 
Merriam's  photograph  stood  in  a  frame  on  a  table.  She 
picked  it  up,  looked  at  it  with  a  smile  of  exquisite  tenderness, 
and — dropped  four  tears  on  it.  And  Merriam  only  twenty 
rods  away!  Then  she  stood  still  for  ten  minutes,  looking 
into  space.  She  looked  into  space  through  a  slowly  opening 
door.  On  her  side  of  the  door  was  the  building  material  for  a 
castle  of  Romance — love,  an  Arcady  of  waving  palms,  a 
lullaby  of  waves  on  the  shore  of  a  haven  of  rest,  respite,  peace, 
a  lotus  land  of  dreamy  ease  and  security — a  life  of  poetry 
and  heart's  ease  and  refuge.  Romanticist,  will  you  tell  me 
what  Mrs.  Conant  saw  on  the  other  side  of  the  door?  You 
cannot .f^ — that  is,  you  will  not?    Very  well;  then  listen. 

She  saw  herself  go  into  a  department  store  and  buy  five  spools 
of  silk  thread  and  three  yards  of  gingham  to  make  an  apron  for 
the  cook.     ''Shall  I  charge  it,  ma'am?''  asked  the  clerk.     As 


208  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

she  walked  out  a  lady  whom  she  met  greeted  her  cordially.  "  OA, 
where  did  you  get  the  pattern  for  those  sleeves,  dear  Mrs.  Con- 
ant?^'  she  said.  At  the  corner  a  policeman  helped  her  across 
the  street  and  touched  his  helmet.  ''Any  callers?"  she  asked 
the  maid  when  she  reached  home.  ''Mrs.  Waldron/'  answered 
the  maid,  "and  the  two  Misses  Jenkinson."  "Very  welly'* 
she  said.     "  You  may  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea,  Maggie.'' 

Mrs.  Conant  went  to  the  door  and  called  Angela,  the  old 
Peruvian  woman.  *'If  Mateo  is  there  send  him  to  me.'* 
Mateo,  a  half-breed,  shuffling  and  old  but  efficient,  came. 

"Is  there  a  steamer  or  a  vessel  of  any  kind  leaving  this 
coast  to-night  or  to-morrow  that  I  can  get  passage  on?"  she 
asked. 

Mateo  considered. 

"At  Punta  Reina,  thirty  miles  down  the  coast,  senora," 
he  answered,  "there  is  a  small  steamer  loading  with  cinchona 
and  dyewoods.  She  sails  for  San  Francisco  to-morrow  at 
sunrise.  So  says  my  brother,  who  arrived  in  his  sloop  to- 
day, passing  by  Punta  Reina." 

"You  must  take  me  in  that  sloop  to  that  steamer  to-night 
Will  you  do  that.^" 

"Perhaps "  Mateo  shrugged  a  suggestive  shouldei. 

IVIrs.  Conant  took  a  handful  of  money  from  a  draw^er  and  gave 
it  to  him. 

"Get  the  sloop  ready  behind  the  little  point  of  land  below 
the  town,"  she  ordered.  "Get  sailors,  and  be  ready  to  sail 
at  six  o'clock.  In  half  an  hour  bring  a  cart  partly  filled  with 
straw  into  the  patio  here,  and  take  my  trunk  to  the  sloop. 
There  is  more  money  yet.     Now,  hurry." 

For  one  time  Mateo  walked  away  without  shuffling  his  feet. 

"Angela,"  cried  Mrs.  Conant,  almost  fiercely,  "come  and 
help  me  pack.  I  am  going  away.  Out  with  this  trunk. 
My  clothes  first.  Stir  yourself.  Those  dark  dresses  first. 
Hurry." 

From  the  first  she  did  not  waver  from  her  decision.  Her 
view  was  clear  and  final.    Her  door  had  opened  and  let  the 


THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR  209 

world  in.  Her  love  for  Merriam  was  not  lessened;  but  it 
DOW  appeared  a  hopeless  and  unrealizable  thing.  The  visions 
of  their  future  that  had  seemed  so  blissful  and  complete  had 
vanished.  She  tried  to  assure  herself  that  her  renunciation 
was  rather  for  his  sake  than  for  her  own.  Now  that  she  was 
cleared  of  her  burden — at  least,  technically — would  not  his 
own  weigh  too  heavily  upon  him?  If  she  should  cling  to 
him,  would  not  the  difference  forever  silently  mar  and  corrode 
their  happiness.?  Thus  she  reasoned;  but  there  were  a  thou- 
sand little  voices  calling  to  her  that  she  could  feel  rather 
than  hear,  like  the  hum  of  distant,  powerful  machinery — 
the  little  voices  of  the  world,  that,  when  raised  in  unison,  can 
send  their  insistent  call  through  the  thickest  door. 

Once  while  packing,  a  brief  shadow  of  the  lotus  dream  came 
f)ack  to  her.  She  held  Merriam 's  picture  to  her  heart  with 
one  hand,  while  she  threw  a  pair  of  shoes  into  the  trunk  with 
her  other. 

At  six  o'clock  Mateo  returned  and  reported  the  sloop  ready. 
He  and  his  brother  lifted  the  trunk  into  the  cart,  covered  it 
with  straw,  and  conveyed  it  to  the  point  of  embarkation. 
From  there  they  transferred  it  on  board  in  the  sloop's  dory. 
Then  Mateo  returned  for  additional  orders. 

Mrs.  Conant  was  ready.  She  had  settled  all  business 
matters  with  Angela,  and  was  impatiently  waiting.  She 
wore  a  long,  loose  black-silk  duster  that  she  often  walked 
about  in  when  the  evenings  were  chilly.  On  her  head  was 
a  small  round  hat,  and  over  it  the  apricot-colored  lace 
mantilla. 

Dusk  had  quickly  followed  the  short  twilight.  Mateo 
led  her  by  dark  and  grass-grown  streets  toward  the  point 
behind  which  the  sloop  was  anchored.  On  turning  a  corner 
they  beheld  the  Hotel  Orilla  del  Mar  three  streets  away, 
nebulously  aglow  with  its  array  of  kerosene  lamps. 

Mrs.  Conant  paused,  with  streaming  eyes.  "I  must  I 
must  see  him  once  before  I  go,"  she  murmured  in  anguish. 
But  even  then  she  did  not  falter  in  her  decision.  Quickly 
she  invented  a  plan  by  which  she  might  speak  to  him,  and 


210  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

yet  make  her  departure  without  his  knowing.  She  would 
walk  past  the  hotel,  ask  some  one  to  call  him  out  and  talk  a 
few  moments  on  some  trival  excuse,  leaving  him  expecting 
to  see  her  at  her  home  at  seven. 

She  unpinned  her  hat  and  gave  it  to  Mateo.  "Keep  this, 
and  wait  here  till  I  come,"  she  ordered.  Then  she  draped 
the  mantilla  over  her  head  as  she  usually  did  when  walking 
after  sunset,  and  went  straight  to  the  Orilla  del  Mar. 

She  was  glad  to  see  the  bulky,  w^hite-clad  figure  of  Tie 
Pancho  standing  alone  on  the  gallery. 

"Tio  Pancho,"  she  said,  with  a  charming  smile,  "may  I 
trouble  you  to  ask  Mr.  Merriam  to  come  out  for  just  a  few 
moments  that  I  may  speak  with  him.'^" 

Tio  Pancho  bowed  as  an  elephant  bows. 

''Buenas  tardes,  Sefiora  Conant,"  he  said,  as  a  cavalier 
talks.     And  then  he  went  on,  less  at  his  ease: 

"But  does  not  the  sefiora  know  that  Senor  Merriam  sailed 
on  the  Pajaro  for  Panama  at  three  o'clock  of  this  afternoon?  " 


"THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE" 

From  Options.  Copyright,  Harper  and  Brothers,  and  used  here 
by  arrangement  with  the  pubHshers.  First  pubhshed  in  Everybody's 
Magazine,  June,  1908.  In  Art  and  the  Bronco,  pubhshed  in  1903, 
O.  Henry's  theme  was  art  by  ancestry.  His  theme  here  is  hterature 
by  ancestry.  The  jotting  in  the  notebook  is:  "Southern  Maga- 
zine. All  contributors  relatives  of  Southern  distinguished  men." 
There  w^as  enough  truth  in  the  picture  to  drive  the  message  home, 
and  the  South  has  joined  whole-heartedly  in  the  laughter  raised  at 
its  own  expense.  Colonel  Telfair  rather  than  Mr.  Thacker  has  thus 
unwittingly  become  the  exponent  of  literature  not  only  divorced  from 
ancestral  claims  but  liberalized  and  modernized  in  its  appeal.  The 
changed  attitude  was  in  evidence,  however,  at  least  four  years  before 
1902,  the  year  in  which  the  story  is  supposed  to  take  place.  The 
ending  is  a  triumph  of  unexpectedness  and  convincingness  un- 
surpassed even  by  O.  Henry.  The  reader  w^ill  not  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  Colonel  Roosevelt  greatly  enjoyed  the  humor  of  the  story, 
so  I  am  told  by  Mr.  Kermit  Roosevelt,  and  passed  it  around  for 
other  members  of  the  family  to  read.  If  Colonel  Telfair  extended 
his  "investigation"  far  enough,  he  doubtless  learned  not  only  that 
Colonel  Roosevelt's  mother,  Martha  Bulloch,  was  a  native  of 
Georgia  but  that  she  had  two  brothers  in  the  Confederate  Navy  and 
that  she  herself  was  as  loyal  to  the  cause  of  the  South  as  her  husband 
was  to  the  cause  of  the  North. 

When  The  Rose  of  Dixie  magazine  was  started  by  a  stock 
company  in  Toombs  City,  Georgia,  there  was  never  but  one 
candidate  for  its  chief  editorial  position  in  the  minds  of  its 
owners.  Col.  Aquila  Telfair  was  the  man  for  the  place. 
By  all  the  rights  of  learning,  family,  reputation,  and  Southern 
traditions,  he  was  its  foreordained,  fit,  and  logical  editor. 
So,  a  committee  of  the  patriotic  Georgia  citizens  who  had 
subscribed  the  founding  fund  of  $100,000  called  upon  Colonel 

211 


212  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Telfair  at  his  residence,  Cedar  Heights,  fearful  lest  the  en- 
terprise and  the  South  should  suffer  by  his  possible  refusal. 

The  colonel  received  them  in  his  great  library,  where  he 
spent  most  of  his  days.  The  library  had  descended  to  him 
from  his  father.  It  contained  ten  thousand  volumes,  some 
of  which  had  been  published  as  late  as  the  year  1861.  When 
the  deputation  arrived,  Colonel  Telfair  was  seated  at  his 
massive  white-pine  center-table,  reading  Burton's  "Anatomy 
of  Melancholy.'*  He  arose  and  shook  hands  punctiliously 
with  each  member  of  the  committee.  If  you  were  familiar 
with  The  Rose  of  Dixie  you  will  remember  the  colonel's  por- 
trait, which  appeared  in  it  from  time  to  time.  You  could 
not  forget  the  long,  carefully  brushed  white  hair;  the  hooked, 
high-bridged  nose,  slightly  twisted  to  the  left;  the  keen  eyes 
under  the  still  black  eyebrows;  the  classic  mouth  beneath  the 
drooping  white  moustache,  slightly  frazzled  at  the  ends. 

The  committee  solicitously  offered  him  the  position  of 
managing  editor,  humbly  presenting  an  outline  of  the  field 
that  the  publication  was  designed  to  cover  and  mentioning 
a  comfortable  salary.  The  colonel's  lands  were  growing 
poorer  each  year  and  were  much  cut  up  by  red  gullies.  Be- 
sides, the  honor  was  not  one  to  be  refused. 

In  a  forty -minute  speech  of  acceptance.  Colonel  Teffair 
gave  an  outline  of  English  literature  from  Chaucer  to  Macau- 
lay,  re-fought  the  battle  of  Chancellorsville,  and  said  that, 
God  helping  him,  he  would  so  conduct  The  Rose  of  Dixie  that 
its  fragrance  and  beauty  would  permeate  the  entire  world, 
hurling  back  into  the  teeth  of  the  Northern  minions  their 
belief  that  no  genius  or  good  could  exist  in  the  brains  and 
hearts  of  the  people  whose  property  they  had  destroyed  and 
whose  rights  they  had  curtailed. 

OflBces  for  the  magazine  were  partitioned  off  and  furnished 
in  the  second  floor  of  the  First  National  Bank  building;  and 
it  was  for  the  colonel  to  cause  The  Rose  of  Dixie  to  blossom 
and  flourish  or  to  wilt  in  the  balmy  air  of  the  land  of  flowers. 

The  staff  of  assistants  and  contributors  that  Editor-Colonel 
Telfair  drew  about  him  was  a  peach.     It  was  a  whole  crate 


"THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE"  213 

of  Georgia  peaches.  The  first  assistant  editor,  ToUiver  Lee 
Fairfax,  had  had  a  father  killed  during  Pickett's  charge. 
The  second  assistant,  Keats  Unthank,  was  the  nephew  of  one 
of  Morgan's  Raiders.  The  book  reviewer,  Jackson  Rocking- 
ham, had  been  the  youngest  soldier  in  the  Confederate  army, 
having  appeared  on  the  field  of  battle  with  a  sword  in  one 
hand  and  a  milk-bottle  in  the  other.  The  art  editor,  Ron- 
cesvalles  Sykes,  was  a  third  cousin  to  a  nephew  of  Jefferson 
Davis.  Miss  Lavinia  Terhune,  the  colonel's  stenographer 
and  typewriter,  had  an  aunt  who  had  once  been  kissed  by 
Stonewall  Jackson.  Tommy  Webster,  the  head  office-boy, 
got  his  job  by  having  recited  Father  Ryan's  poems,  complete, 
at  the  commencement  exercises  of  the  Toombs  City  High 
School.  The  girls  who  wrapped  and  addressed  the  magazines 
were  members  of  old  Southern  families  in  Reduced  Cir- 
cumstances. The  cashier  was  a  scrub  named  Hawkins,  from 
Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  who  had  recommendations,  and  a  bond 
from  a  guarantee  company  filed  w4th  the  owners.  Even 
Georgia  stock  companies  sometimes  realize  that  it  takes 
live  ones  to  bury  the  dead. 

Well,  sir,  if  you  believe  me.  The  Rose  of  Dixie  blossomed 
five  times  before  anybody  heard  of  it  except  the  people  who 
buy  their  hooks  and  eyes  in  Toombs  City.  Then  Hawkins 
climbed  off  his  stool  and  told  on  'em  to  the  stock  company. 
Even  in  Ann  Arbor  he  had  been  used  to  having  his  business 
propositions  heard  of  at  least  as  far  away  as  Detroit.  So 
an  advertising  manager  was  engaged — Beauregard  Fitzhugh 
Banks — a  young  man  in  a  lavender  necktie,  whose  grand- 
father had  been  the  Exalted  High  Pillow-slip  of  the  Kuklux 
Klan. 

In  spite  of  which  The  Rose  of  Dixie  kept  coming  out  every 
month.  Although  in  every  issue  it  ran  photos  of  either  the 
Taj  Mahal  or  the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  or  Carmencita  or 
La  Follette,  a  certain  number  of  people  bought  it  and  sub- 
scribed for  it.  As  a  boom  for  it,  Editor-Colonel  Telfair  ran 
three  different  views  of  Andrew  Jackson's  old  home,  "The 
Hermitage,"  a  full-page  engraving  of  the  second  battle  of 


214  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Manassas,  entitled  "Lee  to  the  Rear!'*  and  a  five-thousand- 
word  biography  of  Belle  Boyd  in  the  same  number.  The 
subscription  Hst  that  month  advanced  118.  Also  there  were 
poems  in  the  same  issue  by  Leonina  Vashti  Haricot  (pen- 
name),  related  to  the  Haricots  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
and  Bill  Thompson,  nephew  of  one  of  the  stockholders,  and 
an  article  from  a  special  society  correspondent  describing 
a  tea-party  given  by  the  swell  Boston  and  English  set,  where 
a  lot  of  tea  was  spilled  overboard  by  some  of  the  guests  mas- 
querading as  Indians. 

One  day  a  person  whose  breath  would  easily  cloud  a  mirror, 
he  was  so  much  alive,  entered  the  office  of  The  Rose  of  Dixie. 
He  was  a  man  about  the  size  of  a  real-estate  agent,  with  a 
self -tied  tie  and  a  manner  that  he  must  have  borrowed  con- 
jointly from  W.  J.  Bryan,  Hackenschmidt,  and  Hetty  Green. 
He  was  shown  into  the  editor-colonel's  pons  asinorun.  Colo- 
nel Telfair  rose  and  began  a  Prince  Albert  bow\ 

"I'm  Thacker,"  said  the  intruder,  taking  the  editor's 
chair— "T.  T.  Thacker,  of  New  York." 

He  dribbled  hastily  upon  the  colonel's  desk  some  cards,  a 
bulk  manila  envelope,  and  a  letter  from  the  owners  of  The 
Rose  of  Dixie.  This  letter  introduced  Mr.  Thacker,  and  po- 
litely requested  Colonel  Telfair  to  give  him  a  conference  and 
whatever  information  about  the  magazine  he  might  desire. 

"I've  been  corresponding  with  the  secretary  of  the  maga- 
zine owners  for  some  time,"  said  Thacker,  briskly.  "I'm  a 
practical  magazine  man  myself,  and  a  circulation  booster  as 
good  as  any,  if  I  do  say  it.  I'll  guarantee  an  increase  of  any- 
where from  ten  thousand  to  a  hundred  thousand  a  year  for 
any  publication  that  isn't  printed  in  a  dead  language.  I've 
had  my  eye  on  The  Rose  of  Dixie  ever  since  it  started.  I  know 
every  end  of  the  business  from  editing  to  setting  up  the  clas- 
sified ads.  Now,  I've  come  down  here  to  put  a  good  bunch  of 
money  in  the  magazine,  if  I  can  see  my  way  clear.  It  ought 
to  be  made  to  pay.  The  secretary  tells  me  it's  losing  money. 
I  don't  see  why  a  magazine  in  the  South,  if  it's  properly 
handled,  shouldn't  get  a  good  circulation  in  the  North,  too." 


"THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE"  215 

Colonel  Telfair  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  polished  his 
gold-rimmed  glasses. 

"Mr.  Thacker,"  said  he,  courteously  but  firmly,  "  The  Rose 
of  Dixie  is  a  publication  devoted  to  the  fostering  and  the  voic- 
ing of  Southern  genius.  Its  watchword,  which  you  may 
have  seen  on  the  cover,  is  'Of,  For,  and  By  the  South."* 

"But  you  wouldn't  object  to  a  Northern  circulation,  would 
you.'^"  asked  Thacker. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  editor-colonel,  "that  it  is  customary 
to  open  the  circulation  lists  to  all.  I  do  not  know.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  business  affairs  of  the  magazine.  I 
was  called  upon  to  assume  editorial  control  of  it,  and  I  have 
devoted  to  its  conduct  such  poor  literary  talents  as  I  may 
possess  and  whatever  store  of  erudition  I  may  have  acquired." 

"Sure,"  said  Thacker.  "But  a  dollar  is  a  dollar  anywhere. 
North,  South,  or  West — whether  you're  buying  codfish, 
goober  peas,  or  Rocky  Ford  cantaloupes.  Now,  I've  been 
iooking  over  your  November  number.  I  see  one  here  on 
your  desk.     You  don't  mind  running  over  it  with  me.^^ 

"Well,  your  leading  article  is  all  right.  A  good  write-up 
of  the  cotton-belt  with  plenty  of  photographs  is  a  winner  any 
time.  New  York  is  always  interested  in  the  cotton  crop. 
And  this  sensational  account  of  the  Hatfield-McCoy  feud, 
by  a  schoolmate  of  a  niece  of  the  Governor  of  Kentucky, 
isn't  such  a  bad  idea.  It  happened  so  long  ago  that  most 
people  have  forgotten  it.  Now,  here's  a  poem  three  pages 
long  called  'The  Tyrant's  Foot,'  by  Lorella  Lascelles.  I've 
pawed  around  a  good  deal  over  manuscripts,  but  I  never  saw 
her  name  on  a  rejection  slip." 

"Miss  Lascelles,"  said  the  editor,  "is  one  of  our  most 
widely  recognized  Southern  poetesses.  She  is  closely  related 
to  the  Alabama  Lascelles  family,  and  made  with  her  own 
hands  the  silken  Confederate  banner  that  was  presented  to 
the  governor  of  that  state  at  his  inauguration." 

"But  why,"  persisted  Thacker,  "is  the  poem  illustrated 
with  a  view  of  the  M.  &  O.  Railroad  freight  depot  at  Tus- 
caloosa?" 


216  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"The  illustration,"  said  the  colonel,  with  dignity,  "shows 
a  corner  of  the  fence  surrounding  the  old  homestead  where 
Miss  Lascelles  was  born." 

"All  right,"  said  Thacker.  "I  read  the  poem,  but  I 
couldn't  tell  whether  it  was  about  the  depot  or  the  battle 
of  Bull  Run.  Now,  here's  a  short  story  called  'Rosie's 
Temptation,'  by  Fosdyke  Piggott.  It's  rotten.  What  is  a 
Piggott,  anyT\^ay.?" 

"Mr.  Piggott,"  said  the  editor,  "is  a  brother  of  the  prin- 
cipal stockholder  of  the  magazine." 

"All's  right  with  the  world — Piggott  passes,"  said  Thacker. 
"Well,  this  article  on  Arctic  exploration  and  the  one  on  tar- 
pon fishing  might  go.  But  how  about  this  write-up  of  the 
Atlanta,  New  Orleans,  Nashville,  and  Savannah  breweries? 
It  seems  to  consist  mainly  of  statistics  about  their  output 
and  the  quality  of  their  beer.    What's  the  chip  over  the  bug?  " 

"If  I  understand  your  figurative  language,"  answered 
Colonel  Telfair,  "it  is  this :  the  article  you  refer  to  was  handed 
to  me  by  the  owners  of  the  magazine  with  instructions  to 
publish  it.  The  literary  quality  of  it  did  not  appeal  to  me. 
But,  in  a  measure,  I  feel  impelled  to  conform,  in  certain 
matters,  to  the  wishes  of  the  gentlemen  who  are  interested 
in  the  financial  side  of  The  Rose.'' 

" I  see,"  said  Thacker.  "Next  we  have  two  pages  of  selec- 
tions from  'Lalla  Rookh,'  by  Thomas  Moore.  Now,  what 
Federal  prison  did  Moore  escape  from,  or  what's  the  name 
of  the  F.  F.  V.  family  that  he  carries  as  a  handicap?" 

"Moore  was  an  Irish  poet  who  died  in  1852,"  said  Colonel 
Telfair,  pityingly.  "He  is  a  classic.  I  have  been  thinking 
of  reprinting  his  translation  of  Anacreon  serially  in  the  maga- 
zine." 

"Look  out  for  the  copyright  laws,"  said  Thacker,  flip- 
pantly. "  Who's  Bessie  Belleclair,  who  contributes  the  essay 
on  the  newly  completed  water- works  plant  in  Millodgeville?" 

"The  name,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Telfair,  "is  the  nom  de 
guerre  of  Miss  Elvira  Simpkins.  I  have  not  the  honor  of 
knowing  the  lady;  but  her  contribution  was  sent  us  by  Con- 


"THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE"  217 

gressman  Brower,  of  her  native  state.  Congressman  Brow- 
er's  mother  was  related  to  the  Polks  of  Tennessee." 

"Now,  see  here,  Colonel,"  said  Thacker,  throwing  down 
the  magazine,  "this  won't  do.  You  can't  successfully  run  a 
magazine  for  one  particular  section  of  the  country.  You've 
got  to  make  a  universal  appeal.  Look  how  the  Northern 
publications  have  catered  to  the  South  and  encouraged  the 
Southern  writers.  And  you've  got  to  go  far  and  wide  for 
your  contributors.  You've  got  to  buy  stuff  according  to  its 
quality,  without  any  regard  to  the  pedigree  of  the  author. 
Now,  I'll  bet  a  quart  of  ink  that  this  Southern  parlor  organ 
you've  been  running  has  never  played  a  note  that  originated 
above  Mason  &  Hamlin's  line.     Am  I  right.'^" 

"I  have  carefully  and  conscientiously  rejected  all  contri- 
butions from  that  section  of  the  country — if  I  understand 
your  figurative  language  aright,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"All  right.     Now,  I'll  show  you  something." 

Thacker  reached  for  his  thick  manila  envelope  and  dumped 
a  mass  of  typewritten  manuscript  on  the  editor's  desk. 

"Here's  some  truck,"  said  he,  "that  I  paid  cash  for,  and 
brought  along  with  me." 

One  by  one  he  folded  back  the  manuscripts  and  showed 
their  first  pages  to  the  colonel. 

"Here  are  four  short  stories  by  four  of  the  highest  priced 
authors  in  the  United  States — three  of  'em  living  in  New 
York,  and  one  commuting.  There's  a  special  article  on 
Vienna-bred  society  by  Tom  Vampson.  Here's  an  Italian 
serial  by  Captain  Jack — ^no — it's  the  other  Crawford.  Here 
are  three  separate  exposes  of  city  governments  by  Sniffings, 
and  here's  a  dandy  entitled  'What  Women  Carry  in  Dress- 
Suit  Cases' — a  Chicago  newspaper  woman  hired  herself  out 
for  five  years  as  a  lady's  maid  to  get  that  information.  And 
here's  a  Synopsis  of  Preceding  Chapters  of  Hall  Caine's  new 
serial  to  appear  next  June.  And  here's  a  couple  of  pounds  of 
vers  de  societe  that  I  got  at  a  rate  from  the  clever  magazines. 
That's  the  stuff  that  people  everywhere  want.  And  now 
here's  a  write-up  with  photographs  at  the  ages  of  four, 


218  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

twelve,  twenty-two,  and  thirty  of  George  B.  McClellan.  It's 
a  prognostication.  He's  bound  to  be  elected  Mayor  of  New 
York.     It'll  make  a  big  hit  all  over  the  country.     He " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Colonel  Telfair,  stiffening  in 
his  chair.     "What  was  the  name?" 

*'0h,  I  see,"  said  Thacker,  with  half  a  grin.  "Yes,  he's  a 
son  of  the  General.  We'll  pass  that  manuscript  up.  But, 
if  you'll  excuse  me.  Colonel,  it's  a  magazine  we're  trying  to 
make  go  off — not  the  first  gun  at  Fort  Sumter.  Now,  here's 
a  thing  that's  bound  to  get  next  to  you.  It's  an  original  poem 
by  James  \ATiitcomb  Riley,  J.  W.  himself.  You  know  what 
that  means  to  a  magazine.  I  won't  tell  you  what  I  had  to 
pay  for  that  poem;  but  I'll  tell  you  this — Riley  can  make  more 
money  \\Titing  with  a  fountain-pen  than  you  or  I  can  vvith 
one  that  lets  the  ink  run.     I'll  read  you  the  last  two  stanzas 

"  Ta  lays  around  'n'  loafs  all  day, 

'N'  reads  and  makes  us  leave  him  be. 
He  lets  me  do  just  like  I  please, 

'N'  when  I'm  bad  he  laughs  at  me, 
'N'  when  I  holler  loud  'n'  say 

Bad  words  'n'  then  begin  to  tease 
The  cat,  'n'  pa  just  smiles,  ma's  mad 
'N'  gives  me  Jesse  crost  her  knees. 
I  always  wondered  why  that  wuz — 
I  guess  it's  cause 
Pa  never  does. 

"**N'  after  all  the  lights  are  out 
I'm  sorry  'bout  it;  so  I  creep 
Out  of  my  trundle  bed  to  ma's 

'N'  say  I  love  her  a  whole  heap, 
'N'  kiss  her,  'n'  I  hug  her  tight. 

'N'  it's  too  dark  to  see  her  eyes. 
But  every  time  I  do  I  know 

She  cries  'n'  cries  'n'  cries  'n'  cries. 
I  always  wondered  why  that  wuzr-^ 
1  guess  it's  cause 
Pa  never  does.' 


"THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE"  219 

"That's  the  stuff,"  contmued  Thacker.  "What  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

"I  am  not  unfamiliar  with  the  works  of  Mr.  Riley,"  said 
the  colonel,  deliberately.  "I  believe  he  lives  in  Indiana. 
For  the  last  ten  years  I  have  been  somewhat  of  a  literary  re- 
cluse, and  am  familiar  with  nearly  all  the  books  in  the  Cedar 
Heights  library.  I  am  also  of  the  opinion  that  a  magazine 
should  contain  a  certain  amount  of  poetry.  Many  of  the 
sweetest  singers  of  the  South  have  already  contributed  to  the 
pages  of  The  Rose  of  Dixie.  I,  myself,  have  thought  of  trans- 
lating from  the  original  for  publication  in  its  pages  the  works 
of  the  great  Italian  poet  Tasso.  Have  you  ever  drunk  from 
the  fountain  of  this  immortal  poet's  lines,  Mr.  Thacker?" 

"Not  even  a  demi-Tasso,"  said  Thacker.  "Now,  let's 
come  to  the  point.  Colonel  Telfair.  I've  already  invested 
some  money  in  this  as  a  flyer.  That  bunch  of  manuscripts 
cost  me  $4,000.  My  object  was  to  try  a  number  of  them 
in  the  next  issue — I  believe  you  make  up  less  than  a  month 
ahead — and  see  what  effect  it  has  on  the  circulation.  I  be- 
lieve that  by  printing  the  best  stuff  we  can  get  in  the  North, 
South,  East,  or  West  we  can  make  the  magazine  go.  You 
have  there  the  letter  from  the  owning  company  asking  you 
to  co-operate  with  me  in  the  plan.  Let's  chuck  out  some  of 
this  slush  that  you've  been  publishing  just  because  the  writers 
are  related  to  the  Skoopdoodles  of  Skoopdoodle  County. 
Are  you  with  me?" 

"As  long  as  I  continue  to  be  the  editor  of  The  Rose^'  said 
Colonel  Telfair,  with  dignity,  "I  shall  be  its  editor.  But  I 
desire  also  to  conform  to  the  wishes  of  its  owners  if  I  can  do 
so  conscientiously." 

"That's  the  talk,"  said  Thacker,  briskly.  "Now,  how 
much  of  this  stuff  I've  brought  can  we  get  into  the  January 
number?     We  want  to  begin  right  away." 

"There  is  yet  space  in  the  January  number,"  said  the 
editor,  "for  about  eight  thousand  words,  roughly  estimated." 

"Great!"  said  Thacker.  "It  isn't  much,  but  it'll  give 
the  readers  some  change  from  goobers,  governors,  and  Gettys- 


220  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

burg.  I'll  leave  the  selection  of  the  stuff  I  brought  to  fill  the 
space  to  you,  as  it's  all  good.  I've  got  to  run  back  to  New 
York,  and  I'll  be  down  again  in  a  couple  of  weeks." 

Colonel  Telfair  slowly  swung  his  eye-glasses  by  their  broad, 
black  ribbon. 

"The  space  in  the  January  number  that  I  referred  to," 
said  he,  measuredly,  "has  been  held  open  purposely,  pending 
a  decision  that  I  have  not  yet  made.  A  short  time  ago  a  con- 
tribution was  submitted  to  The  Rose  of  Dixie  that  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  literary  efforts  that  has  ever  come  under 
my  observation.  None  but  a  master  mind  and  talent  could 
have  produced  it.  It  would  about  fill  the  space  that  I  have 
reserved  for  its  possible  use." 

Thacker  looked  anxious. 

"WTiat  kind  of  stuff  is  it?"  he  asked.  "Eight  thousand 
words  sounds  suspicious.  The  oldest  families  must  have  been 
collaborating.     Is  there  going  to  be  another  secession.? " 

"The  author  of  the  article,"  continued  the  colonel,  ignoring 
Thacker's  allusions,  "is  a  writer  of  some  reputation.  He 
has  also  distinguished  himself  in  other  ways.  I  do  not  feel 
at  liberty  to  reveal  to  you  his  name — at  least  not  until  I  have 
decided  whether  or  not  to  accept  his  contribution." 

"Well,"  said  Thacker,  nervously," is  it  a  continued  story, 
or  an  account  of  the  unveiling  of  the  new  town  pump  in  Whit- 
mire,  South  Carolina,  or  a  revised  list  of  General  Lee's  body- 
servants,  or  what?" 

"You  are  disposed  to  be  facetious,''  said  Colonel  Telfair, 
calmly.  "The  article  is  from  the  pen  of  a  thinker,  a  philoso- 
pher, a  lover  of  mankind,  a  student,  and  a  rhetorician  of  high 
degree." 

"It  must  have  been  written  by  a  syndicate,"  said  Thacker. 
"But,  honestly.  Colonel,  you  want  to  go  slow.  I  don't  know 
of  any  eight-thousand-word  single  doses  of  written  matter 
that  are  read  by  anybody  these  days,  except  Supreme  Court 
briefs  and  reports  of  murder  trials.  You  haven't  by  any  ac- 
cident gotten  hold  of  a  copy  of  one  of  Daniel  Webster's 
speeches,  have  you?" 


"THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE"  221 

Colonel  Telfair  swung  a  little  in  his  chair  and  looked  stead- 
ily under  his  bushy  eyebrows  at  the  magazine  promoter. 

'*Mr.  Thacker,"  he  said,  gravely,  "I  am  willing  to  segre- 
gate the  somewhat  crude  expression  of  your  sense  of  humor 
from  the  solicitude  that  your  business  investments  undoubt- 
edly have  conferred  upon  you.  But  I  must  ask  you  to  cease 
j'our  jibes  and  derogatory  comments  upon  the  South  and 
the  Southern  people.  They,  sir,  will  not  be  tolerated  in  the 
ojSSce  of  The  Rose  of  Dixie  for  one  moment.  And  before 
you  proceed  with  more  of  your  covert  insinuations  that  I, 
the  editor  of  this  magazine,  am  not  a  competent  judge  of  the 
merits  of  the  matter  submitted  to  its  consideration,  I  beg  that 
you  will  first  present  some  evidence  or  proof  that  you  are  my 
superior  in  any  way,  shape,  or  form  relative  to  the  question 
in  hand." 

"Oh,  come.  Colonel,"  said  Thacker,  good-naturedly.  "I 
didn't  do  anything  like  that  to  you.  It  sounds  like  an  m- 
dictment  by  the  fourth  assistant  attorney-general.  Let's 
get  back  to  business.     What's  this  8,000  to  1  shot  about.'^" 

"The  article,"  said  Colonel  Telfair,  acknowledging  the 
apology  by  a  slight  bow,  "covers  a  wide  area  of  knowledge. 
It  takes  up  theories  and  questions  that  have  puzzled  the  world 
for  centuries,  and  disposes  of  them  logically  and  concisely. 
One  by  one  it  holds  up  to  view  the  evils  of  the  world,  points 
out  the  way  of  eradicating  them,  and  then  conscientiously 
and  in  detail  commends  the  good.  There  is  hardly  a  phase 
of  human  life  that  it  does  not  discuss  wisely,  calmly,  and 
equitably.  The  great  policies  of  governments,  the  duties  of 
private  citizens,  the  obligations  of  home  life,  law,  ethics, 
morality — all  these  important  subjects  are  handled  with  a 
calm  wisdom  and  confidence  that  I  must  confess  has  captured 
my  admiration." 

"It  must  be  a  crackerjack,"  said  Thacker,  impressed. 

"It  is  a  great  contribution  to  the  world's  wisdom,"  said 
the  colonel.  "The  only  doubt  remaining  in  my  mind  as  to 
the  tremendous  advantage  it  would  be  to  us  to  give  it  publica- 
tion in  The  Rose  of  Dixie  is  that  I  have  not  yet  suiSficient  in- 


222  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

formation  about  the  author  to  give  his  work  pubHcity  in  our 
magazine." 

"I  thought  you  said  he  is  a  distinguished  man,"  said 
Thacker. 

"He  is,"  repHed  the  colonel,  "both  in  literary  and  in  other 
more  diversified  and  extraneous  fields.  But  I  am  extremely 
careful  about  the  matter  that  I  accept  for  pubhcation.  My 
contributors  are  people  of  unquestionable  repute  and  connec- 
tions, which  fact  can  be  verified  at  any  time.  As  I  said,  I 
am  holding  this  article  until  I  can  acquire  more  information 
about  its  author.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  will  publish  it  or 
not.  If  I  decide  against  it,  I  shall  be  much  pleased,  Mr 
Thacker,  to  substitute  the  matter  that  you  are  leaving  with 
me  in  its  place." 

Thacker  was  somewhat  at  sea. 

"I  don't  seem  to  gather,"  said  he,  "much  about  the  gist 
of  this  inspired  piece  of  literature.  It  sounds  more  like  a 
dark  horse  than  Pegasus  to  me." 

"It  is  a  human  document,"  said  the  colonel-editor,  con- 
fidently, "from  a  man  of  great  accomplishments  who,  in  my 
opinion,  has  obtained  a  stronger  grasp  on  the  world  and  its 
outcomes  than  that  of  any  man  living  to-day." 

Thacker  rose  to  his  feet  excitedly. 

"Say!"  he  said.  "It  isn't  possible  that  youVe  cornered 
John  D.  Rockefeller's  memoirs,  is  it?  Don't  tell  me  that  all 
at  once." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Telfair.  "I  am  speaking  of  men- 
tality and  literature,  not  of  the  less  worthy  intricacies  of 
trade." 

"Well,  what's  the  trouble  about  running  the  article,"  asked 
Thacker,  a  little  impatiently,  "if  the  man's  well  known  and 
has  got  the  stuff?" 

Colonel  Telfair  sighed. 

"Mr.  Thacker,"  said  he,  "for  once  I  have  been  tempted. 
Nothing  has  yet  appeared  in  The  Rose  of  Dixie  that  has  not 
been  from  the  pen  of  one  of  its  sons  or  daughters.  I  know 
little  about  the  author  of  this  article  except  that  he  has  ac- 


"THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE"  223 

quired  prominence  in  a  section  of  the  country  that  has  al- 
ways been  inimical  to  my  heart  and  mind.  But  I  recognize 
his  genius;  and,  as  I  have  told  you,  I  have  instituted  an  in- 
vestigation of  his  personality.  Perhaps  it  will  be  futile.  But 
I  shall  pursue  the  inquiry.  Until  that  is  finished,  I  must 
leave  open  the  question  of  filling  the  vacant  space  in  our 
January  number.'* 

Thacker  arose  to  leave. 

"All  right.  Colonel,"  he  said,  as  cordially  as  he  could. 
"You  use  your  own  judgment.  If  you've  really  got  a  scoop 
or  something  that  will  make  'em  sit  up,  run  it  instead  of  my 
stuff.     I'll  drop  in  again  in  about  two  weeks.     Good  luck!" 

Colonel  Telfair  and  the  magazine  promoter  shook  hands. 

Returning  a  fortnight  later,  Thacker  dropped  off  a  very 
focky  Pullman  at  Toombs  City.  He  found  the  January 
number  of  the  magazine  made  up  and  the  forms  closed. 

The  vacant  space  that  had  been  yawning  for  type  was 
filled  by  an  article  that  was  headed  thus : 

SECOND  MESSAGE  TO  CONGRESS 

Written  for 
THE  ROSE  OF  DIXIE 

BY 

A  Member  of  the  Well-known 

BULLOCH  FAMILY,  OF  GEORGIA 

T.  Roosevelt 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT 

From  Strictly  Business.  First  published  in  Hampton*s  Magazine, 
November,  1909.  This  story,  says  a  writer  in  the  New  York  Times, 
April  28,  1918,  "is  coming  to  be  regarded  as  O.  Henry's  greatest 
short  story  and  one  of  the  greatest  in  the  language."  Writing  about 
the  story  to  Mr.  William  Griffith,  then  editor  of  Hampton's,0.  Henry 
says:  "Title  will  follow  with  the  remainder;  have  to  take  time  on 
title.  ...  In  the  end  there  is  a  dramatic  and  mysterious 
murder,  the  victim  being  Major  Caswell.  The  *snapper'  comes  in 
the  last  paragraph,  revealing  the  slayer  by  a  bare  intimation.  The 
whole  scheme  is  to  show  that  an  absolutely  prosaic  and  conventional 
town  such  as  Nashville,  can  equal  San  Francisco,  Bagdad,  or  Paris 
when  it  comes  to  a  human  story.  The  beginning  of  the  story  is  not 
yet  written — there  will  be  two  or  three  pages  to  follow,  containing 
references  to  Frank  Norris's  lines,  in  which  the  words  occur,  *  Think 
of  anything  happening  in  Nashville,  Tennessee.'"  It  was  knowTi 
before  that  O.  Henry  pondered  long  over  his  titles,  that  he  blocked 
out  his  plots  slowly,  but  that  he  wrote  rapidly  and  with  hardly  an 
erasure  after  the  plot  had  been  thought  through  to  its  denouement. 
This  letter  indicates  also  that  the  expository  openings  (see  page  97) 
were  sometimes  written  after  the  purely  narrative  part  had  been 
completed.  In  the  structure  of  the  story,  note  especially  the 
artistic  use  made  of  Rand  and  McNally's  prosaic  summary.  The 
repetition  of  a  quotation  or  parts  of  a  quotation  at  intervals  through 
a  story  for  re-enforcement  or  continuousness  is  not  an  uncommon 
device.  But  the  quotations  from  Rand  and  McNally  are  employed 
differently.  They  strike  an  opposing  note;  they  take  the  side  of 
Frank  Norris;  they  build  up  the  material  Nashville  by  the  side  of 
O.  Henry's  romantic  Nashville.  The  story  becomes  a  sort 
of  debate,  with  periodic  rejoinders  from  the  opposition.  The 
initial  quotation  from  Frank  Norris  is  taken  from  The  House  with 
the  Blindsy  one  of  the  stories  in  the  volume  called  The  Third 
Circle  (1909). 

224 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  225 

The  cities  are  full  of  pride. 

Challenging  each  to  each — 
This  from  her  mountainside. 

That  from  her  burthened  beach. 

R.  Kipling. 

Fancy  a  novel  about  Chicago  or  Buffalo,  let  us  say,  or  Nashville, 
Tennessee!  There  are  just  three  big  cities  in  the  United  States  that 
are  "story  cities" — New  York,  of  course.  New  Orleans,  and,  best 
of  the  lot,  San  Francisco. — Frank  Norris. 

East  is  East,  and  West  is  San  Francisco,  according  to 
Calif ornians.  Calif ornians  are  a  race  of  people;  they  are 
not  merely  inhabitants  of  a  State.  They  are  the  Southern- 
ers of  the  West.  Now,  Chicagoans  are  no  less  loyal  to  their 
city;  but  when  you  ask  them  why,  they  stammer  and  speak 
of  lake  fish  and  the  new  Odd  Fellows  Building.  But  Cali- 
fornians  go  into  detail. 

Of  course  they  have,  in  the  climate,  an  argument  that  is 
good  for  half  an  hour  while  you  are  thinking  of  your  coal 
bills  and  heavy  underwear.  But  as  soon  as  they  come  to  mis- 
take your  silence  for  conviction,  madness  comes  upon  them, 
and  they  picture  the  city  of  the  Golden  Gate  as  the  Bagdad 
of  the  New  World.  So  far,  as  a  matter  of  opinion,  no  refuta- 
tion is  necessary.  But,  dear  cousins  all  (from  Adam  and 
Eve  descended),  it  is  a  rash  one  who  will  lay  his  finger  on  the 
map  and  say:  *'In  this  town  there  can  be  no  romance — what 
could  happen  here?"  Yes,  it  is  a  bold  and  a  rash  deed  to 
challenge  in  one  sentence  history,  romance,  and  Rand  and 
McNally. 

Nashville. — A  city,  port  of  delivery,  and  the  capital  of  the  State 
of  Tennessee,  is  on  the  Cumberland  River  and  on  the  N.  C.  &  St.  L. 
and  the  L.  &  N.  railroads.  This  city  is  regarded  as  the  most  im 
portant  educational  centre  in  the  South. 

I  stepped  off  the  train  at  8  p.  m.  Having  searched  the 
thesaurus  in  vain  for  adjectives,  I  must,  as  a  substitution, 
hie  me  to  comparison  in  the  form  of  a  recipe. 


STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

Take  of  London  fog  30  parts;  malaria  10  parts;  gas  leaks 
20  parts;  dewdrops  gathered  in  a  brick  yard  at  sunrise,  25 
parts;  odor  of  honeysuckle  15  parts.     Mix. 

The  mixture  will  give  you  an  approximate  conception  of  a 
Nashville  drizzle.  It  is  not  so  fragrant  as  a  moth-ball  nor 
as  thick  as  pea-soup;  but  'tis  enough — 'twill  serve. 

I  went  to  a  hotel  in  a  tumbril.  It  required  strong  self- 
suppression  for  me  to  keep  from  climbing  to  the  top  of  it 
and  giving  an  imitation  of  Sidney  Carton.  The  vehicle  was 
drawm  by  beasts  of  a  bygone  era  and  driven  by  something 
dark  and  emancipated. 

I  was  sleepy  and  tired,  so  when  I  got  to  the  hotel  I  hur- 
riedly paid  it  the  fifty  cents  it  demanded  (with  approximate 
lagniappe,  I  assure  you).  I  knew  its  habits;  and  I  did  not 
want  to  hear  it  prate  about  its  old  "marster"  or  anything 
that  happened  *'befo'  de  w^ah." 

The  hotel  was  one  of  the  kind  described  as  "renovated." 
That  means  $20,000  worth  of  new  marble  pillars,  tiling,  elec- 
tric lights  and  brass  cuspidors  in  the  lobby,  and  a  new  L.  &.  N. 
time  table  and  a  lithograph  of  Lookout  Mountain  in  each 
one  of  the  great  rooms  above.  The  management  was  with- 
out reproach,  the  attention  full  of  exquisite  Southern  cour- 
tesy, the  service  as  slow  as  the  progress  of  a  snail  and  as  good- 
humored  as  Rip  Van  Winkle.  The  food  was  worth  traveling 
a  thousand  miles  for.  There  is  no  other  hotel  in  the  world 
where  you  can  get  such  chicken  livers  en  brochette. 

At  dinner  I  asked  a  Negro  waiter  if  there  was  anything 
doing  in  town.  He  pondered  gravely  for  a  minute,  and  then 
replied:  "Well,  boss,  I  don't  really  reckon  there's  anything 
at  all  doin'  after  sundown." 

Sundown  had  been  accomphshed;  it  had  been  drowned 
in  the  drizzle  long  before.  So  that  spectacle  was  denied 
me.  But  I  went  forth  upon  the  streets  in  the  drizzle  to  see 
what  might  be  there. 

It  is  built  on  undulating  grounds;  and  the  streets  are  lighted  by 
electricity  at  a  cost  of  $32,470  per  annum. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  227 

As  I  left  the  hotel  there  was  a  race  riot.  Down  upon  me 
charged  a  company  of  freedmen,  or  Arabs,  or  Zulus,  armed 
with — !  no,  I  saw  with  relief  that  they  were  not  rifles,  but 
whips.  And  I  saw  dimly  a  caravan  of  black,  clumsy  vehicles; 
and  at  the  reassuring  shouts,  "Kyar  you  anywhere  in  the 
town,  boss,  fuh  fifty  cents,"  I  reasoned  that  I  was  merely  a 
"fare"  instead  of  a  victim. 

I  walked  through  long  streets,  all  leading  uphill.  I  won- 
dered how  those  streets  ever  came  down  again.  Perhaps 
they  didn't  until  they  were  "graded."  On  a  few  of  the 
"main  streets"  I  saw  lights  in  stores  here  and  there;  saw 
street  cars  go  by  conveying  worthy  burghers  hither  and  yon; 
saw  people  pass  engaged  in  the  art  of  conversation,  and 
heard  a  burst  of  semi-lively  laughter  issuing  from  a  soda- 
water  and  ice-cream  parlor.  The  streets  other  than  "  main" 
seemed  to  have  enticed  upon  their  borders  houses  con- 
secrated to  peace  and  domesticity.  In  many  of  them  lights 
shone  behind  discreetly  drawn  window  shades;  in  a  few 
pianos  tinkled  orderly  and  irreproachable  music.  There 
was,  indeed,  little  "doing."  I  wished  I  had  come  before 
sundown.     So  I  returned  to  my  hotel. 

In  November,  1864,  the  Confederate  General  Hood  advanced 
against  Nashville,  where  he  shut  up  a  National  force  under  General 
Thomas.  The  latter  then  sallied  forth  and  defeated  the  Confeder- 
ates in  a  terrible  conflict. 

All  my  life  I  have  heard  of,  admired,  and  witnessed  the 
fine  marksmanship  of  the  South  in  its  peaceful  conflicts  in 
the  tobacco-chewing  regions.  But  in  my  hotel  a  surprise 
awaited  me.  There  were  twelve  bright,  new,  imposing,  ca- 
pacious brass  cuspidors  in  the  great  lobby,  tall  enough  to 
be  called  urns  and  so  wide-mouthed  that  the  crack  pitcher 
of  a  lady  baseball  team  should  have  been  able  to  throw  a  ball 
into  one  of  them  at  five  paces  distant.  But,  although  a 
terrible  battle  had  raged  and  was  still  raging,  the  enemy  had 
not  suffered.     Bright,  new,  imposing,  capacious,  untouched. 


228  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

they  stood.  But,  shades  of  Jefferson  Brick!  the  tile  floor — • 
the  beautiful  tile  floor!  I  could  not  avoid  thinking  of  the 
battle  of  Nashville,  and  trying  to  draw,  as  is  my  foolish  habit, 
some  deductions  about  hereditary  marksmanship. 

Here  I  first  saw  Major  (by  misplaced  courtesy)  Went- 
worth  Caswell.  I  knew  him  for  a  type  the  moment  my  eyes 
suffered  from  the  sight  of  him.  A  rat  has  no  geographical 
habitat.  My  old  friend,  A.  Tennyson,  said,  as  he  so  well 
said  almost  everything: 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip. 

And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat. 

Let  us  regard  the  word  "British"  as  interchangeable  ad  lib, 
A  rat  is  a  rat. 

This  man  w  as  hunting  about  the  hotel  lobby  like  a  starved 
dog  that  had  forgotten  where  he  had  buried  a  bone.  He 
had  a  face  of  great  acreage,  red,  pulpy,  and  with  a  kind  of 
sleepy  massiveness  like  that  of  Buddha.  He  possessed  one 
single  virtue — he  was  very  smoothly  shaven.  The  mark 
of  the  beast  is  not  indelible  upon  a  man  until  he  goes  about 
with  a  stubble.  I  think  that  if  he  had  not  used  his  razor 
that  day  I  w^ould  have  repulsed  his  advances,  and  the  crim- 
inal calendar  of  the  world  would  have  been  spared  the  addi- 
tion of  one  murder. 

I  happened  to  be  standing  within  five  feet  of  a  cuspidor 
when  Major  Caswell  opened  fire  upon  it.  I  had  been  ob- 
servant enough  to  perceive  that  the  attacking  force  was  using 
Gatlings  instead  of  squirrel  rifles ;  so  I  side-stepped  so  prompt- 
ly that  the  major  seized  the  opportunity  to  apologize  to  a  non- 
combatant.  He  had  the  blabbing  lip.  In  fcur  minutes 
he  had  become  my  friend  and  had  dragged  me  to  the  bar. 

I  desire  to  interpolate  here  that  I  am  a  Southerner.  But 
I  am  not  one  by  profession  or  trade.  I  eschew  the  string  tie, 
the  slouch  hat,  the  Prince  Albert,  the  number  of  bales  of 
cotton  destroyed  by  Sherman,  and  plug  chewing.  When 
the  orchestra  plays  Dixie  I  do  not  cheer.     I  slide  a  little  lower 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  229 

on  the  leather-cornered  seat  and,  well,  order  another  Wiirz- 
burger  and  wish  that  Longstreet  had But  what's  the  use? 

Major  CasweU  banged  the  bar  with  his  fist,  and  the  first 
gun  at  Fort  Sumter  re-echoed.  When  he  fired  the  last  one 
at  Appomattox  I  began  to  hope.  But  then  he  began  on  fam- 
ily trees,  and  demonstrated  that  Adam  was  only  a  third  cou- 
sin of  a  collateral  branch  of  the  Caswell  family.  Genealogy 
disposed  of,  he  took  up,  to  my  distaste,  his  private  family 
matters.  He  spoke  of  his  wife,  traced  her  descent  back  to  Eve, 
and  profanely  denied  any  possible  rumor  that  she  may  have 
had  relations  in  the  land  of  Nod. 

By  this  time  I  began  to  suspect  that  he  was  trying  to  ob- 
scure by  noise  the  fact  that  he  had  ordered  the  drinks,  on  the 
chance  that  I  would  be  bewildered  into  paying  for  them. 
But  when  they  were  down  he  crashed  a  silver  dollar  loudly 
upon  the  bar.  Then,  of  course,  another  serving  was  obliga- 
tory. And  when  I  had  paid  for  that  I  took  leave  of  him 
brusquely;  for  I  wanted  no  more  of  him.  But  before  I  had 
obtained  my  release  he  had  prated  loudly  of  an  income  that 
his  wife,  received,  and  showed  a  handful  of  silver  money. 

When  I  got  my  key  at  the  desk  the  clerk  said  to  me  cour- 
teously: "If  that  man  Caswell  has  annoyed  you,  and  if  you 
would  like  to  make  a  complaint,  we  will  have  him  ejected. 
He  is  a  nuisance,  a  loafer,  and  without  any  known  means  of 
support,  although  he  seems  to  have  some  money  most  of  the 
time.  But  we  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  hit  upon  any  means 
of  throwing  him  out  legally." 

"Why,  no,"  said  I,  after  some  reflection;  "I  don't  see  my 
way  clear  to  making  a  complaint.  But  I  would  like  to  place 
myself  on  record  as  asserting  that  I  do  not  care  for  his  com- 
pany. Your  town,"  I  continued,  "seems  to  be  a  quiet  one. 
What  manner  of  entertainment,  adventure,  or  excitement 
have  you  to  offer  to  the  stranger  within  your  gates?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  "there  will  be  a  show  here  next 
Thursday.  It  is — I'll  look  it  up  and  have  the  announcement 
sent  up  to  your  room  with  the  ice  water.     Good  night." 

After  I  went  up  to  my  room  I  looked  out  the  window. 


230  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

It  was  only  about  ten  o'clock,  but  I  looked  upon  a  silent  town. 
The  drizzle  continued,  spangled  with  dim  lights,  as  far  apart 
as  currants  in  a  cake  sold  at  the  Ladies'  Exchange. 

*'A  quiet  place,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  my  first  shoe  struck 
the  ceiling  of  the  occupant  of  the  room  beneath  mine. 
"Nothing  of  the  life  here  that  gives  color  and  variety  to  the 
cities  in  the  East  and  West.  Just  a  good,  ordinary,  humdrum, 
business  town.*' 

Nashville  occupies  a  foremost  place  among  the  manufacturing 
centers  of  the  country.  It  is  the  fifth  boot  and  shoe  market  in  the 
United  States,  the  largest  candy  and  cracker  manufacturing  city  in 
the  South,  and  does  an  enormous  wholesale  drygoods,  grocery,  and 
drug  business. 

I  must  tell  you  how  I  came  to  be  in  Nashville,  and  I  assure 
you  the  digression  brings  as  much  tedium  to  me  as  it  does  to 
you.  I  was  traveling  elsewhere  on  my  own  business,  but  I 
had  a  commission  from  a  Northern  literary  magazine  to  stop 
over  there  and  establish  a  personal  connection  between  the 
publication  and  one  of  its  contributors.  Azalea  Adair. 

Adair  (there  was  no  clue  to  the  personality  except  the  hand- 
writing) had  sent  in  some  essays  (lost  art:)  and  poems  that 
had  made  the  editors  swear  approvingly  over  their  one  o'clock 
luncheon.  So  they  had  commissioned  me  to  round  up  said 
Adair  and  corner  by  contract  his  or  her  output  at  two 
cents  a  word  before  some  other  publisher  offered  her  ten  or 
twenty. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  after  my  chicken  livers 
en  brochette  (try  them  if  you  can  find  that  hotel),  I  strayed 
out  into  the  drizzle,  which  was  still  on  for  an  unlimited  run. 
At  the  first  corner  I  came  upon  Uncle  Csesar.  He  was  a 
stalwart  Negro,  older  than  the  pyramids,  with  gray  wool  and 
a  face  that  reminded  me  of  Brutus,  and  a  second  afterwards 
of  the  late  King  Cettiwayo.  He  wore  the  most  remarkable 
coat  that  I  ever  had  seen  or  expect  to  see.  It  reached  to  his 
ankles  and  had  once  been  a  Confederate  gray  in  co/ors.  But 
rain  and  sun  and  age  had  so  variegated  it  that  Jo.«eph's  coat 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  231 

beside  it,  would  have  faded  to  a  pale  monochrome.  I  must 
linger  with  that  coat,  for  it  has  to  do  with  the  story — the 
story  that  is  so  long  in  coming,  because  you  can  hardly  expect 
anything  to  happen  in  Nashville. 

Once  it  must  have  been  the  military  coat  of  an  officer.  The 
cape  of  it  had  vanished,  but  all  adoT\Ti  its  front  it  had  been 
frogged  and  tasseled  magnificently.  But  now  the  frogs  and 
tassels  were  gone.  In  their  stead  had  been  patiently  stitched 
(I  surmised  by  some  surviving  "black  mammy")  new  frogs 
made  of  cunningly  twisted  common  hempen  twine.  This 
twine  was  frayed  and  disheveled.  It  must  have  been  added 
to  the  coat  as  a  substitute  for  vanished  splendors,  with  taste- 
less but  pains  taking  devotion,  for  it  followed  faithfully  the 
curves  of  the  long-missing  frogs.  And,  to  complete  the 
comedy  and  pathos  of  the  garment,  all  its  buttons  were  gone 
save  one.  The  second  button  from  the  top  alone  remained. 
The  coat  was  fastened  by  other  twine  strings  tied  through  the 
buttonholes  and  other  holes  rudely  pierced  in  the  opposite 
side.  There  was  never  such  a  weird  garment  so  fantastically 
bedecked  and  of  so  many  mottled  hues.  The  lone  button 
was  the  size  of  a  half-dollar,  made  of  yellow  horn  and  sewed 
on  with  coarse  twine. 

This  Negro  stood  by  a  carriage  so  old  that  Ham  himself 
might  have  started  a  hack  line  with  it  after  he  left  the  ark 
with  the  two  animals  hitched  to  it.  As  I  approached  he  threw 
open  the  door,  drew  out  a  feather  duster,  waved  it  without 
using  it,  and  said  in  deep,  rumbling  tones : 

"Step  right  in,  suh;  ain't  a  speck  of  dust  in  it — ^jus'  got 
back  from  a  funeral,  suh.'* 

I  inferred  that  on  such  gala  occasions  carriages  were  given 
an  extra  cleaning.  I  looked  up  and  down  the  street  and  per- 
ceived that  there  was  little  choice  among  the  vehicles  for 
hire  that  lined  the  curb.  I  looked  in  my  memorandum  book 
for  the  address  of  Azalea  Adair. 

*'I  want  to  go  to  861  Jessamine  Street,"  I  said,  and  was 
about  to  step  into  the  hack.  But  for  an  instant  the  thick, 
long,  gorilla-like  arm  of  the  Negro  barred  me.     On  his  mas- 


232  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

sive  and  saturnine  face  a  look  of  sudden  suspicion  and  enmity 
flashed  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  quickly  returning  con- 
viction, he  asked  blandishingly :  "What  are  you  gwine  there 
for,  boss?" 

'*  What  is  that  to  you?  "  I  asked,  a  little  sharply. 

"Nothin',  suh,  jus'  nothin'.  Only  it's  a  lonesome  kind 
of  part  of  town  and  few  folks  ever  has  business  out  there. 
Step  right  in.  The  seats  is  clean — jes'  got  back  from  a 
funeral,  suh." 

A  mile  and  a  half  it  must  have  been  to  our  journey's  end. 
I  could  hear  nothing  but  the  fearful  rattle  of  the  ancient 
hack  over  the  uneven  brick  paving;  I  could  smell  nothing 
but  the  drizzle,  now  further  flavored  with  coal  smoke  and 
something  like  a  mixture  of  tar  and  oleander  blossoms. 
All  I  could  see  through  the  streaming  windows  were  two 
rows  of  dim  houses. 

The  city  has  an  area  of  10  square  miles;  181  miles  of  streets,  et 
which  137  miles  are  paved;  a  system  of  water- works  that  cost 
$2,000,000,  with  77  miles  of  mains. 

Eight-sixty-one  Jessamine  Street  was  a  decayed  mansion. 
Thirty  yards  back  from  the  street  it  stood,  out-merged  in  a 
splendid  grove  of  trees  and  untrimmed  shrubbery.  A  row 
of  box  bushes  overflowed  and  almost  hid  the  paling  fence 
from  sight;  the  gate  was  kept  closed  by  a  rope  noose  that 
encircled  the  gate  post  and  the  first  paling  of  the  gate.  But 
when  you  got  inside  you  saw  that  861  was  a  shell,  a  shadow,  a 
ghost  of  former  grandeur  and  excellence.  But  in  the  story, 
I  have  not  yet  got  inside. 

When  the  hack  had  ceased  from  rattling  and  the  weary 
quadrupeds  came  to  a  rest  I  handed  my  jehu  his  fifty  cents 
with  an  additional  quarter,  feeling  a  glow  of  conscious  gen- 
erosity, as  I  did  so.     He  refused  it. 

"It's  two  dollars,  suh,"  he  said. 

"How's  that?"  I  asked.  "I  plainly  heard  you  call  out 
at  the  hotel:     'Fifty  cents  to  any  part  of  the  town.' '* 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  233 

"It's  two  dollars,  suh,"  he  repeated  obstinately.  "It's 
a  long  ways  from  the  hotel." 

"It  is  within  the  city  limits  and  well  within  them,"  I 
argued.  "Don't  think  that  you  have  picked  up  a  greenhorn 
Yankee.  Do  you  see  those  hills  over  there?"  I  went  on, 
pointing  toward  the  east  (I  could  not  see  them,  myself,  for 
the  drizzle) ;  "well,  I  was  born  and  raised  on  their  other  side. 
You  old  fool  nigger,  can't  you  tell  people  from  other  people 
when  you  see  'em?" 

The  grim  face  of  King  Cettiwayo  softened.  "Is  you  from 
the  South,  suh?  I  reckon  it  was  them  shoes  of  yourn  fooled 
me.  They  is  somethin'  sharp  in  the  toes  for  a  Southern 
gen '1 'man  to  wear." 

"Then  the  charge  is  fifty  cents,  I  suppose?"  said  I  in- 
exorably. 

His  former  expression,  a  mingling  of  cupidity  and  hos- 
tility, returned,  remained  ten  seconds,  and  vanished. 

"Boss,"  he  said,  "fifty  cents  is  right;  but  I  needs  two  dol- 
lars, suh;  I'm  obleeged  to  have  two  dollars.  I  ain't  demandin* 
it  now,  suh;  after  I  knows  whar  you's  from;  I'm  jus'  say  in' 
that  I  has  to  have  two  dollars  to-night,  and  business  is  mighty 
po'." 

Peace  and  confidence  settled  upon  his  heavy  features.  He 
had  been  luckier  than  he  had  hoped.  Instead  of  having 
picked  up  a  greenhorn,  ignorant  of  rates,  he  had  come  upon 
an  inheritance. 

"You  confounded  old  rascal,"  I  said,  reaching  down  to 
my  pocket,  "you  ought  to  be  turned  over  to  the  police." 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  him  smile.  He  knew;  he  knew; 
HE  KNEW. 

I  gave  him  two  one-dollar  bills.  As  I  handed  them  over 
I  noticed  that  one  of  them  had  seen  parlous  times.  Its  upper 
right-hand  corner  was  missing,  and  it  had  been  torn  through 
in  the  middle,  but  joined  again.  A  strip  of  blue  tissue  paper, 
pasted  over  the  split,  preserved  its  negotiability. 

Enough  of  the  African  bandit  for  the  present:  I  left  him 
happy,  lifted  the  rope,  and  opened  the  creaky  gate. 


234  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

The  house,  as  I  said,  was  a  shell.  A  paint  brush  had  not 
touched  it  in  twenty  years.  I  could  not  see  why  a  strong 
wind  should  not  have  bowled  it  over  like  a  house  of  cards 
until  I  looked  again  at  the  trees  that  hugged  it  close — the 
trees  that  saw  the  battle  of  Nashville  and  still  drew  their  pro- 
tecting branches  around  it  against  storm  and  enemy  and  cold. 

Azalea  Adair,  fifty  years  old,  white-haired,  a  descendant 
of  the  cavaliers,  as  thin  and  frail  as  the  house  she  lived  in, 
robed  in  the  cheapest  and  cleanest  dress  I  ever  saw,  with  an 
air  as  simple  as  a  queen's,  received  me. 

The  reception  room  seemed  a  mile  square,  because  there 
was  nothing  in  it  except  some  rows  of  books,  on  unpainted 
white-pine  bookshelves,  a  cracked  marble-top  table,  a  rag 
rug,  a  hairless  horse-hair  sofa,  and  two  or  three  chairs.  Yes, 
there  was  a  picture  on  the  wall,  a  colored  crayon  drawing  of 
a  cluster  of  pansies.  I  looked  around  for  the  portrait  of 
Andrew  Jackson  and  the  pine-cone  hanging  basket  but  they 
were  not  there. 

Azalea  Adair  and  I  had  conversation,  a  little  of  which  will 
be  repeated  to  you.  She  was  a  product  of  the  old  South, 
gently  nurtured  in  the  sheltered  life.  Her  learning  was  not 
broad,  but  was  deep  and  of  splendid  originality  in  its  some- 
what narrow  scope.  She  had  been  educated  at  home,  and 
her  knowledge  of  the  world  was  derived  from  inference  and 
by  inspiration.  Of  such  is  the  precious,  small  group  of  es- 
sayists made.  While  she  talked  to  me  I  kept  brushing  my 
fingers,  trying,  unconsciously,  to  rid  them  guiltily  of  the  ab- 
sent dust  from  the  half -calf  backs  of  Lamb,  Chaucer,  Haziitt, 
Marcus  Aurelius,  Montaigne,  and  Hood.  She  was  exquisite, 
she  was  a  valuable  discovery.  Nearly  everybody  nowadays 
knows  too  much — oh,  so  much  too  much — of  real  life. 

I  could  perceive  clearly  that  Azalea  Adair  was  very  poor. 
A  horuse  and  a  dress  she  had,  not  much  else,  I  fancied.  So, 
divided  between  my  duty  to  the  magazine  and  my  loyalty 
to  the  poets  and  essayists  who  fought  Thomas  in  the  valley 
of  the  Cumberland,  I  listened  to  her  voice,  which  was  like  a 
harpsichord's,  and  found  that  I  could  not  speak  of  contracts. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  235 

In  the  presence  of  the  nine  Muses  and  the  three  Graces  one 
hesitated  to  lower  the  topic  to  two  cents.  There  would  have 
to  be  another  colloquy  after  I  had  regained  my  commer- 
cialism. But  I  spoke  of  my  mission,  and  three  o'clock  of  the 
next  afternoon  was  set  for  the  discussion  of  the  business  prop- 
osition. 

"Your  town,"  I  said,  as  I  began  to  make  ready  to  depart 
(which  is  the  time  for  smooth  generalities),  "seems  to  be  a 
quiet,  sedate  place.  A  home  town,  I  should  say,  where  few 
things  out  of  the  ordinary  ever  happen." 

It  carries  on  an  extensive  trade  in  stoves  and  hollow  ware  with  the 
West  and  South,  and  its  flouring  mills  have  a  daily  capacity  of  more 
than  2,000  barrels. 

Azalea  Adair  seemed  to  reflect. 

"I  have  never  thought  of  it  that  way,"  she  said,  with  a 
kind  of  sincere  intensity  that  seemed  to  belong  to  her.  "  Isn't 
it  in  the  stiU,  quiet  places  that  things  do  happen.?  I  fancy 
that  when  God  began  to  create  the  earth  on  the  first  Monday 
morning  one  could  have  leaned  out  one's  window  and  heard 
the  drops  of  mud  splashing  from  His  trowel  as  He  built  up  the 
everlasting  hills.  What  did  the  noisiest  project  in  the  world 
— I  mean  the  building  of  the  tower  of  Babel — result  in  finally? 
A  page  and  a  half  of  Esperanto  in  the  North  American  Re- 
view.'' 

"Of  course,"  said  I  platitudinously,  "human  nature  is  the 
same  everywhere;  but  there  is  more  color — er — more  drama 
and  movement  and — er — romance  in  some  cities  than  in 
others." 

"On  the  surface,"  said  Azalea  Adair.  "I  have  traveled 
many  times  around  the  world  in  a  golden  airship  wafted  on 
two  wings — print  and  dreams.  I  have  seen  (on  one  of  my 
imaginary  tours)  the  Sultan  of  Turkey  bowstring  with  his  own 
hands  one  of  his  wives  who  had  uncovered  her  face  in  public. 
I  have  seen  a  man  in  Nashville  tear  up  his  theatre  tickets  be- 
cause his  wife  was  going  out  with  her  face  covered — with 


236  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

rice  powder.  In  San  Francisco's  Chinatown  I  saw  the  slave 
girl  Sing  Yee  dipped  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  in  boiling  almond 
oil  to  make  her  swear  she  would  never  see  her  American  lover 
again.  She  gave  in  when  the  boiling  oil  had  reached  three 
inches  above  her  knee.  At  a  euchre  party  in  East  Nash- 
ville the  other  night  I  saw  Kitty  Morgan  cut  dead  by  seven 
of  her  schoolmates  and  lifelong  friends  because  she  had  mar- 
ried a  house  painter.  The  boiling  oil  was  sizzling  as  high  as 
her  heart;  but  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  fine  little  smile 
that  she  carried  from  table  to  table.  Oh,  yes,  it  is  a  hum- 
drum town.  Just  a  few  miles  of  red  brick  houses  and  mud 
and  stores  and  lumber  yards." 

Some  one  knocked  hollowly  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
Azalea  Adah*  breathed  a  soft  apology  and  went  to  investigate 
the  sound.  She  came  back  in  three  minutes  with  brightened 
eyes,  a  faint  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  ten  years  lifted  from  her 
shoulders. 

"You  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  before  you  go,"  she  said, 
"and  a  sugar  cake." 

She  reached  and  shook  a  little  iron  bell.  In  shuffled  a  small 
Negro  girl  about  twelve,  barefoot,  not  very  tidy,  glowering 
at  me  with  thumb  in  mouth  and  bulging  eyes. 

Azalea  Adair  opened  a  tiny,  worn  purse  and  drew  out  a 
dollar  bill,  a  dollar  bill  with  the  upper  right-hand  corner 
missing,  torn  in  two  pieces  and  pasted  together  again  with 
a  strip  of  blue  tissue  paper.  It  was  one  of  the  bills  I  had 
given  the  piratical  Negro — there  was  no  doubt  of  it. 

"Go  up  to  Mr.  Baker's  store  on  the  corner,  Impy,"  she 
said,  handing  the  girl  the  dollar  bill,  "and  get  a  quarter  of  a 
pound  of  tea — the  kind  he  always  sends  me — and  ten  cents 
worth  of  sugar  cakes.  Now,  hurry.  The  supply  of  tea  in 
the  house  happens  to  be  exhausted,"  she  explained  to  me. 

Impy  left  by  the  back  way.  Before  the  scrape  of  her  hard, 
bare  feet  had  died  away  on  the  back  porch,  a  wild  shriek — 
I  was  sure  it  was  hers — filled  the  hollow  house.  Then  the 
deep,  gruff  tones  of  an  angry  man's  voice  mingled  with  the 
givVs  further  squeals  and  unintelligible  words. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  237 

Azalea  Adair  rose  witnout  surprise  or  emotion  and  disap- 
peared. For  two  minutes  I  heard  the  hoarse  rumble  of  the 
man's  voice;  then  something  like  an  oath  and  a  slight  scuffle, 
and  she  returned  calmly  to  her  chair. 

"This  is  a  roomy  house,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  a  tenant 
for  part  of  it.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  rescind  my  invitation  to 
tea.  It  was  impossible  to  get  the  kind  I  always  use  at  the 
store.  Perhaps  to-morrow  Mr.  Baker  will  be  able  to  supply 
me." 

I  was  sure  that  Impy  had  not  had  time  to  leave  the  house. 
I  inquired  concerning  street-car  lines  and  took  my  leave. 
After  I  was  well  on  my  way  I  remembered  that  I  had  not 
learned  Azalea  Adair's  name.     But  to-morrow  would  do. 

That  same  day  I  started  in  on  the  course  of  iniquity  that 
this  eventful  city  forced  upon  me.  I  was  in  the  town  only 
two  days,  but  in  that  time  I  managed  to  lie  shamelessly  by 
telegraph,  and  to  be  an  accomplice — after  the  fact,  if  that 
is  the  correct  legal  term — to  a  murder. 

As  I  rounded  the  corner  nearest  my  hotel  the  Afrite  coach- 
man of  the  polychromatic,  nonpareil  coat  seized  me,  swung 
open  the  dungeony  door  of  his  peripatetic  sarcophagus, 
flirted  his  feather  duster,  and  began  his  ritual:  "Step  right 
in,  boss.  Carriage  is  clean — jus'  got  back  from  a  funeral. 
Fifty  cents  to  any " 

And  then  he  knew  me  and  grinned  broadly.  "  'Souse  me, 
boss;  you  is  de  genl'man  what  rid  out  with  me  dis  mawnin'. 
Thank  you  kindly,  suh." 

"I  am  going  out  to  861  again  to-morrow  afternoon  at 
three,"  said  I,  "and  if  you  will  be  here,  I'll  let  you  drive  me. 
So  you  know  Miss  Adair.^  "  I  concluded,  thinking  of  my  dol- 
lar bill. 

"I  belonged  to  her  father,  Judge  Adair,  suh,"  he  replied. 

"I  judge  that  she  is  pretty  poor,"  I  said.  "She  hasn't 
much  money  to  speak  of,  has  she?" 

For  an  instant  I  looked  again  at  the  fierce  countenance  of 
King  Cettiwayo,  and  then  he  changed  back  to  an  extortionate 
old  Negro  hack  driver. 


238  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

"She  ain't  gwine  to  starve,  suh,'*  he  said  slowly.  "She 
has  reso'ces,  suh;  she  has  reso'ces.'* 

"I  shall  pay  you  fifty  cents  for  the  trip,"  said  I. 

"Dat  is  puffeckly  correct,  suh,"  he  answered  humbly.  "I 
jus'  had  to  have  dat  two  dollars  dis  mawnin',  boss." 

I  went  to  the  hotel  and  lied  by  electricity.  I  wired  the 
magazine:    "A.  Adair  holds  out  for  eight  cents  a  word." 

The  answer  that  came  back  was:  "Give  it  to  her  quick, 
you  duffer." 

Just  before  dinner  "Major"  Wentworth  Caswell  bore  down 
upon  me  with  the  greetings  of  a  long-lost  friend.  I  have  seen 
few  men  whom  I  have  so  instantaneously  hated,  and  of  whom 
it  was  so  difficult  to  be  rid.  I  was  standing  at  the  bar  w^hen 
he  invaded  me;  therefore  I  could  not  wave  the  white  ribbon 
in  his  face.  I  would  have  paid  gladly  for  the  drinks,  hoping, 
thereby,  to  escape  another;  but  he  w^as  one  of  those  despic- 
able, roaring,  advertising  bibbers  who  must  have  brass  bands 
and  fireworks  attend  upon  every  cent  that  they  waste  in 
their  follies. 

With  an  air  of  producing  millions  he  drew  two  one-dollar 
bills  from  a  pocket  and  dashed  one  of  them  upon  the  bar. 
I  looked  once  more  at  the  dollar  bill  with  the  upper  right- 
hand  corner  missing,  torn  through  the  middle,  and  patched 
with  a  strip  of  blue  tissue  paper.  It  w^as  my  dollar  bill  again. 
It  could  have  been  no  other. 

I  went  up  to  my  room.  The  drizzle  and  the  monotony  of 
a  dreary,  eventless  Southern  towTi  had  made  me  tired  and 
listless.  I  remember  that  just  before  I  went  to  bed  I  men- 
tally  disposed  of  the  mysterious  dollar  bill  (which  might  have 
formed  the  clew  to  a  tremendously  fine  detective  story  of 
San  Francisco)  by  saying  to  myself  sleepily:  "Seems  as  if 
a  lot  of  people  here  own  stock  in  the  Hack-Driver's  Trust. 

Pays  dividends  promptly,  too.     Wonder  if "     Then  I 

fell  asleep. 

King  Cettiwayo  was  at  his  post  the  next  day,  and  rattled 
my  bones  over  the  stones  out  to  861.  He  was  to  wait  and 
rattle  me  back  again  when  I  was  ready. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  239 

Azalea  Adair  looked  paler  and  cleaner  and  frailer  than  she 
had  ^oked  on  the  day  before.  After  she  had  signed  the  con- 
tract at  eight  cents  per  word  she  grew  still  paler  and  began  to 
slip  out  of  her  chair.  Without  much  trouble  I  managed  to 
get  her  up  on  the  antediluvian  horse-hair  sofa  and  then  I 
ran  out  to  the  sidewalk  and  yelled  to  the  coffee-colored 
Pirate  to  bring  a  doctor.  With  a  wisdom  that  I  had  not 
suspected  in  him,  he  abandoned  his  team  and  struck  off  up 
the  street  afoot,  realizing  the  value  of  speed.  In  ten  min- 
utes he  returned  with  a  grave,  gray-haired,  and  capable  man 
of  medicine.  In  a  few  words  (worth  much  less  than  eight 
cents  each)  I  explained  to  him  my  presence  in  the  hollow 
house  of  mystery.  He  bowed  with  stately  understanding, 
and  turned  to  the  old  Negro. 

"Uncle  Caesar,"  he  said  calmly,  "run  up  to  my  house  and 
ask  Miss  Lucy  to  give  you  a  cream  pitcher  full  of  fresh  milk 
and  half  a  tumbler  of  port  wine.  And  hurry  back.  Don't 
drive — run.     I  want  you  to  get  back  sometime  this  week." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Dr.  Merriman  also  felt  a  distrust 
as  to  the  speeding  powers  of  the  land-pirate's  steeds.  After 
Uncle  Caesar  was  gone,  lumberingly,  but  swiftly,  up  the 
street,  the  doctor  looked  me  over  with  great  politeness  and 
as  much  careful  calculation  until  he  had  decided  that  I 
might  do. 

"It  is  only  a  case  of  insufficient  nutrition,"  he  said.  "In 
other  words,  the  result  of  poverty,  pride,  and  starvation. 
Mrs.  Caswell  has  many  devoted  friends  who  would  be  glad 
to  aid  her,  but  she  will  accept  nothing  except  from  that  old 
Negro,  Uncle  Caesar,  who  was  once  owned  by  her  family." 

"Mrs.  Caswell!"  said  I,  in  surprise.  And  then  I  looked 
at  the  contract  and  saw  that  she  had  signed  it  "Azalea  Adair 
Caswell." 

"I  thought  she  was  Miss  Adair,"  I  said. 

"Married  to  a  drunken,  worthless  loafer,  sir,"  said  the 
doctor.  "It  is  said  that  he  robs  her  even  of  the  small  sums 
that  her  old  servant  contributes  toward  her  support." 

When  the  milk  and  wine  had  been  brought  the  doctor  soon 


240  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

revived  Azalea  Adair.  She  sat  up  and  talked  of  the  beauty 
of  the  autunm  leaves  that  were  then  in  season,  and  their 
height  of  color.  She  referred  lightly  to  her  fainting  seizure 
as  the  outcome  of  an  old  palpitation  of  the  heart.  Impy  fan- 
ned her  as  she  lay  on  the  sofa.  The  doctor  was  due  else- 
where, and  I  followed  him  to  the  door.  I  told  him  that  it 
was  within  my  power  and  intentions  to  make  a  reasonable 
advance  of  money  to  Azalea  Adair  on  future  contributions 
to  the  magazine,  and  he  seemed  pleased. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  would  like  to  know 
that  you  have  had  royalty  for  a  coachman.  Old  Csesar's 
grandfather  was  a  king  in  Congo.  Csesar  himself  has  royal 
ways,  as  you  may  have  observed." 

As  the  doctor  was  moving  off  I  heard  Uncle  Caesar's  voice 
inside:  "Did  he  git  bofe  of  dem  two  dollars  from  you,  Mis' 
Zalea.?^" 

"Yes,  Csesar,"  I  heard  Azalea  x\dair  answer  weakly.  And 
then  I  went  in  and  concluded  business  negotiations  with  our 
contributor.  I  assumed  the  responsibility  of  advancing  fifty 
dollars,  putting  it  as  a  necessary  formality  in  binding  our 
bargain.     And  then  Uncle  Caesar  drove  me  back  to  the  hotel. 

Here  ends  all  of  the  story  as  far  as  I  can  testify  as  a  witness. 
The  rest  must  be  only  bare  statements  of  facts. 

At  about  six  o'clock  I  went  out  for  a  stroll.  Uncle  Caesar 
was  at  his  corner.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  his  carriage, 
flourished  his  duster,  and  began  his  depressing  formula: 
"Step  right  in,  suh.  Fifty  cents  to  anywhere  in  the  city — 
hack's  puflBckly  clean,  suh — jus'  got  back  from  a  funeral " 

And  then  he  recognized  me.  I  think  his  eyesight  was  get- 
ting bad.  His  coat  had  taken  on  a  few  more  faded  shades 
of  color,  the  twine  strings  were  more  frayed  and  ragged,  the 
last  remaining  button — the  button  of  yellow  horn — was  gone. 
A  motley  descendant  of  kings  was  Uncle  Caesar ! 

About  two  hours  later  I  saw  an  excited  crowd  besieging  the 
front  of  a  drug  store.  In  a  desert  where  nothing  happens 
this  was  manna;  so  I  wedged  my  way  inside.  On  an  extem- 
porized couch  of  empty  boxes  and  chairs  was  stretched  the 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  241 

mortal  corporeality  of  Major  Wentworth  Caswell.  A  doctor 
was  testing  him  for  the  immortal  ingredient.  His  decision 
was  that  it  was  conspicuous  by  its  absence. 

The  erstwhile  Major  had  been  found  dead  on  a  dark  street 
and  brought  by  curious  and  ennuied  citizens  to  the  drug 
store.  The  late  human  being  had  been  engaged  in  terrific 
battle — the  details  showed  that.  Loafer  and  reprobate 
though  he  had  been,  he  had  been  also  a  warrior.  But  he  had 
lost.  His  hands  were  yet  clinched  so  tightly  that  his  fingers 
would  not  be  opened.  The  gentle  citizens  who  had  known 
him  stood  about  and  searched  their  vocabularies  to  find  some 
good  words,  if  it  were  possible,  to  speak  of  him.  One  kind- 
looking  man  said,  after  much  thought:  "When  *Cas'  was 
about  fo'teen  he  was  one  of  the  best  spellers  in  school." 

While  I  stood  there  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  of  "the 
man  that  was,"  which  hung  down  the  side  of  a  white  pine 
box,  relaxed,  and  dropped  something  at  my  feet.  I  covered 
it  with  one  foot  quietly,  and  a  little  later  on  I  picked  it  up 
and  pocketed  it.  I  reasoned  that  in  his  last  struggle  his 
hand  must  have  seized  that  object  unwittingly  and  held  it 
in  a  death  grip. 

At  the  hotel  that  night  the  main  topic  of  conversation,  with 
the  possible  exceptions  of  politics  and  prohibition,  was  the 
demise  of  Major  Caswell.  I  heard  one  man  say  to  a  group 
of  listeners: 

"In  my  opinion,  gentlemen,  Caswell  was  murdered  by 
some  of  these  no-account  niggers  for  his  money.  He  had 
fifty  dollars  this  afternoon  which  he  showed  to  several  gentle- 
men in  the  hotel.  When  he  was  found  the  money  was  not 
on  his  person." 

I  left  the  city  the  next  morning  at  nine,  and  as  the  train  was 
crossing  the  bridge  over  the  Cumberland  River  I  took  out 
of  my  pocket  a  yellow  horn  overcoat  button  the  size  of  a 
fifty-cent  piece,  with  frayed  ends  of  coarse  twine  hanging 
from  it,  and  cast  it  out  of  the  window  into  the  slow,  muddy 
^yaters  below. 

I  wonder  what's  doing  in  Buffalo  1 


LET*  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE 

From  Sixes  and  Sevens.  First  published  in  The  Cosmopolitan 
Magazine,  July,  1910.  This  last  complete  story  that  O.  Henry 
wrote  shows  no  diminution  of  humor  or  charm.  An  English  critic, 
S.  P.  B.  Mais,  in  From  Shakespeare  to  0.  Henry  (1918),  says:  "For 
pure  humor  I  place  Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  easily  first.  It  has  an 
appeal  which  none  of  the  others  has  for  the  purely  English 
reader.  ...  It  obeys  the  laws  laid  down  by  Meredith  for  the 
Comic  Spirit:  it  makes  us  laugh  at  human  follies;  it  satirizes  and 
ridicules  and  yet  it  does  us  quite  active  and  appreciable  good.  It  is 
an  anodyne  in  itself  for  all  bodily  ailments,  an  infallible  prescription 
from  an  unerring  doctor."  The  story  was  first  published  as  Ad- 
ventures in  Neurasthenia  and  was  heralded  by  the  announcement: 
*'If  you  want  to  get  well,  read  this  story  by  O.  Henry;"  but  the 
author  was  dead  before  it  appeared.  The  latter  half  of  the  story 
takes  place  in  or  near  Asheville  (Pineville) ,  North  Carolina,  at  Mrs. 
Porter's  home,  where  O.  Henry  had  sought  and  seemingly  found 
restoration  of  health.  "It  was  \\Titten,"  says  Dr.  William  Pinkney 
Herbert,  of  Asheville,  "with  the  aid  of  my  medical  books.  Some- 
times he  would  take  them  to  his  office  and  again  he  would  sit  in  my 
outer  office."  There  is  not  the  usual  surprise  at  the  end,  for  the 
story  passes  almost  imperceptibly  into  an  allegory  of  rest  and 
heart's-ease  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade.  But  there  is  exquisite 
imagery,  there  is  release  at  last  from  the  spell  of  the  unquiet  Lady 
Neurasthenia,  and  there  is  a  terminal  beauty  of  thought  and  melody 
of  phrase  that  in  themselves  are  restful  and  remedial. 

So  I  went  to  a  doctor. 

"How  long  has  it  been  since  you  took  any  alcohol  into 
your  system?"  he  asked. 

Turning  my  head  sidewise,  I  answered,  "Oh,  quite  a 
while." 

He  was  a  young  doctor,  somewhere  between  twenty  and 

242 


LET  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE  243 

forty.  He  wore  heliotrope  socks,  but  he  looked  like  Napoleon. 
I  like  him  immensely. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  am  going  to  show  you  the  effect  of 
alcohol  upon  your  circulation."  I  think  it  was  '*  circulation  " 
he  said;  though  it  may  have  been  "advertising." 

He  bared  my  left  arm  to  the  elbow,  brought  out  a  bottle  of 
whiskey,  and  gave  me  a  drink.  He  began  to  look  more  like 
Napoleon.     I  began  to  like  him  better. 

Then  he  put  a  tight  compress  on  my  upper  arm,  stopped 
my  pulse  with  his  fingers,  and  squeezed  a  rubber  bulb  con- 
nected with  an  apparatus  on  a  stand  that  looked  like  a  ther- 
mometer. The  mercury  jumped  up  and  down  without 
seeming  to  stop  anywhere;  but  the  doctor  said  it  registered 
two  hundred  and  thirty-seven  or  one  hundred  and  sixty-five 
or  some  such  number. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "you  see  what  alcohol  does  to  the  blood- 
pressure." 

"It's  marvelous,"  said  I,  "but  do  you  think  it  a  sufficient 
test.^  Have  one  on  me,  and  let's  try  the  other  arm."  But, 
no! 

Then  he  grasped  my  hand.  I  thought  I  was  doomed  and 
he  was  saying  good-bye.  But  all  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  jab 
a  needle  into  the  end  of  a  finger  and  compare  the  red  drop 
with  a  lot  of  fifty-cent  poker  chips  that  he  had  fastened  to  a 
card. 

"It's  the  haemoglobin  test,"  he  explained.  "The  color  of 
your  blood  is  wrong." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  know  it  should  be  blue;  but  this  is  a 
country  of  mix-ups.  Some  of  my  ancestors  were  cavaliers; 
but  they  got  thick  with  some  people  on  Nantucket  Island, 
so " 

"I  mean,"  said  the  doctor,  "that  the  shade  of  red  is  too 
ligHt."  ^^     ^ 

"Oh,"  said  I,  "it's  a  case  of  matching  instead  of  matches." 

The  doctor  then  pounded  me  severely  in  the  region  of  the 
chest.  When  he  did  that  I  don't  know  whether  he  reminded 
me  most  of  Napoleon  or  Battling  or  Lord  Nelson.     Then  he 


244  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

looked  grave  and  mentioned  a  string  of  grievances  that  the 
flesh  is  heir  to — mostly  ending  in  "itis."  I  immediately 
paid  him  fifteen  dollars  on  account. 

"Is  or  are  it  or  some  or  any  of  them  necessarily  fatal?" 
I  asked.  I  thought  my  connection  with  the  matter  justified 
toy  manifesting  a  certain  amount  of  interest. 

"All  of  them,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "But  their  prog- 
ress may  be  arrested.  With  care  and  proper  continuous  treat- 
ment you  may  live  to  be  eighty-five  or  ninety." 

I  began  to  think  of  the  doctor's  bilL  "Eighty-five  would 
be  sufficient,  I  am  sure,"  was  my  comment.  I  paid  him  ten 
dollars  more  on  account. 

"The  first  thing  to  do,"  he  said,  with  renewed  animation, 
"is  to  find  a  sanitarium  where  you  will  get  a  complete  rest 
for  a  while,  and  allow  your  nerves  to  get  into  a  better  con- 
dition.    I  myself  will  go  with  you  and  select  a  suitable  one." 

So  he  took  me  to  a  mad-house  in  the  Catskills.  It  was  on 
a  bare  mountain  frequented  only  by  infrequent  frequenters. 
You  could  see  nothing  but  stones  and  boulders,  som^e  patches 
of  snow,  and  scattered  pine  trees.  The  young  physician  in 
charge  was  most  agreeable.  He  gave  me  a  stimulant  with- 
out applying  a  compress  to  the  arm.  It  was  luncheon  time, 
and  we  were  invited  to  partake.  There  were  about  twenty 
inmates  at  little  tables  in  the  dining  room.  The  young 
physician  in  charge  came  to  our  table  and  said:  "It  is  a 
custom  with  our  guests  not  to  regard  themselves  as  patients, 
but  merely  as  tired  ladies  and  gentlemen  taking  a  rest. 
Whatever  slight  maladies  they  may  have  are  never  alluded  to 
in  conversation." 

My  doctor  called  loudly  to  a  waitress  to  bring  some  phos- 
phoglycerate  of  lime  hash,  dog-bread,  bromo-seltzer  pan- 
cakes, and  nux  vomica  tea  for  my  repast.  Then  a  sound 
arose  like  a  sudden  wind  storm  among  pine  trees.  It  was  pro- 
duced by  every  guest  in  the  room  whispering  loudly,  "Neur- 
asthenia!"— except  one  man  with  a  nose,  whom  I  distinctly 
heard  say,  "  Chronic  alcoholism."  I  hope  to  meet  him  again. 
The  physician  in  charge  turned  and  walked  away. 


LET  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE  245 

An  hour  or  so  after  luncheon  he  conducted  us  to  the  work- 
shop— say  fifty  yards  from  the  house.  Thither  the  guests 
had  been  conducted  by  the  physician  in  charge's  understudy 
and  sponge-holder — a  man  with  feet  and  a  blue  sw^eater.  He 
was  so  tall  that  I  was  not  sure  he  had  a  face ;  but  the  Armour 
Packing  Company  would  have  been  delighted  with  his  hands. 

"Here,"  said  the  physician  in  charge,  "our  guests  find  re- 
laxation from  past  mental  worries  by  devoting  themselves 
to  physical  labor — recreation,  in  reality." 

There  were  turning-lathes,  carpenters'  outfits,  clay-model- 
ing tools,  spinning-wheels,  weaving-frames,  treadmills, 
bass  drums,  enlarged-crayon-portrait  apparatuses,  black- 
smith forges,  and  everything,  seemingly,  that  could  interest 
the  paying  lunatic  guests  of  a  first-rate  sanitarium. 

"The  lady  making  mud  pies  in  the  corner,"  whispered  the 
physician  in  charge,  "is  no  other  than — Lula  Lulington,  the 
authoress  of  the  novel  entitled  'Why  Love  Loves.'  What  she 
is  doing  now  is  simply  to  rest  her  mind  after  performing  that 
piece  of  work." 

I  had  seen  the  book.  "Why  doesn't  she  do  it  by  writing 
another  one  instead?"  I  asked. 

As  you  see,  I  wasn't  as  far  gone  as  they  thought  I  was. 

"The  gentleman  pouring  water  through  the  funnel,"  con- 
tinued the  physician  in  charge,  "is  a  Wall  Street  broker 
broken  down  from  overwork." 

I  buttoned  my  coat. 

Others  he  pointed  out  were  architects  playing  with  Noah's 
arks,  ministers  reading  Darwin's  "Theory  of  Evolution," 
lawyers  sawing  wood,  tired-out  society  ladies  talking  Ibsen 
to  the  blue-sweatered  sponge-holder,  a  neurotic  millionaire 
lying  asleep  on  the  floor,  and  a  prominent  artist  drawing  a 
little  red  wagon  around  the  room. 

"You  look  pretty  strong,"  said  the  physician  in  charge  to 
me.  "I  think  the  best  mental  relaxation  for  you  would  be 
throwing  small  boulders  over  the  mountainside  and  then 
bringing  them  up  again." 

I  was  a  hundred  yards  away  before  my  doctor  overtook  me. 


246  STORIES  FROM  0.  HENRY 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"The  matter  is,"  said  I,  "that  there  are  no  aeioplanes 
handy.  So  I  am  going  to  merrily  and  hastily  jog  the  foot- 
pathway  to  yon  station  and  catch  the  first  milimited-soft- 
coal  express  back  to  town." 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "perhaps  you  are  right.  This 
seems  hardly  the  suitable  place  for  you.  But  what  you  need 
is  rest — absolute  rest  and  exercise." 

That  night  I  went  to  a  hotel  in  the  city,  and  said  to  the 
clerk:  "What  I  need  is  absolute  rest  and  exercise.  Can  you 
give  me  a  room  with  one  of  those  tall  folding  beds  in  it,  and 
a  relay  of  bellboys  to  work  it  up  and  down  while  I  rest.^" 

The  clerk  rubbed  a  speck  off  one  of  his  finger  nails  and 
glanced  sidewise  at  a  tall  man  in  a  white  hat  sitting  in  the 
lobby.  That  man  came  over  and  asked  me  politely  if  I  had 
seen  the  shrubbery  at  the  west  entrance.  I  had  not,  so  he 
showed  it  to  me  and  then  looked  me  over. 

"I  thought  you  had  'em,"  he  said,  not  unkindly,  "but  I 
guess  you're  all  right.  You'd  better  go  see  a  doctor,  old 
man." 

A  week  afterward  my  doctor  tested  my  blood  pressure 
again  without  the  preliminary  stimulant.  He  looked  to  me 
a  little  less  like  Napoleon.  And  liis  socks  were  of  a  shade  of 
^an  that  did  not  appeal  to  me. 

"What  you  need,"  he  decided," is  sea  air  and  companion- 
ship." 

"Would  a  mermaid "  I  began;  but  he  slipped  on  his 

professional  manner. 

"I  myself,"  he  said,  "will  take  you  to  the  Hotel  Bonair 
off  the  coast  of  Long  Island  and  see  that  you  get  in  good 
shape.  It  is  a  quiet,  comfortable  resort  where  you  will  soon 
recuperate." 

The  Hotel  Bonair  proved  to  be  a  nine-hundred-room  fash- 
ionable hostelry  on  an  island  off  the  main  shore.  Every- 
body who  did  not  dress  for  dinner  was  shoved  into  a  side 
dining-room  and  given  only  a  terrapin  and  champagne 
table  d'hote.    The  bay  was  a  great  stamping  ground  for 


LET  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE  247 

wealthy  yachtsmen.  The  Corsair  anchored  there  the  day 
we  arrived.  I  saw  Mr.  Morgan  standing  on  deck  eating  a 
cheese  sandwich  and  gazing  longingly  at  the  hotel.  Still, 
It  was  a  very  inexpensive  place.  Nobody  could  afford  to 
pay  their  prices.  When  you  went  away  you  simply  left 
your  baggage,  stole  a  skiff,  and  beat  it  for  the  mainland  in 
the  night. 

When  I  had  been  there  one  day  I  got  a  pad  of  mono- 
grammed  telegraph  blanks  at  the  clerk's  desk  and  began  to 
wire  all  my  friends  for  get-away  money.  My  doctor  and  I 
played  one  game  of  croquet  on  the  golf  links  and  went  to 
sleep  on  the  lawn. 

When  we  got  back  to  town  a  thought  seemed  to  occur  to  him 
suddenly.     "By  the  way,"  he  asked,  "how  do  you  feel.?" 
"ReHeved  of  very  much,"  I  replied. 

Now  a  consulting  physician  is  different.  He  isn't 
exactly  sure  he  is  to  be  paid  or  not,  and  this  uncertainty 
msures  you  either  the  most  careful  or  the  most  careless  at- 
tention. My  doctor  took  me  to  see  a  consulting  physician. 
He  made  a  poor  guess  and  gave  me  careful  attention.  I 
liked  him  immensely.  He  put  me  through  some  co-ordina- 
tion exercises. 

"Have  you  a  pain  in  the  back  of  your  head.?"  he  asked. 
I  told  him  I  had  not. 

"Shut  your  eyes,"  he  ordered,  "put  your  feet  close  to- 
gether, and  jump  backward  as  far  as  you  can." 

I  always  was  a  good  backward  jumper  with  my  eyes  shut, 
so  I  obeyed.  My  head  struck  the  edge  of  the  bathroom 
door,  which  had  been  left  open  and  was  only  three  feet  away. 
The  doctor  was  very  sorry.  He  had  overlooked  the  fact 
that  the  door  was  open.     He  closed  it. 

"Now  touch  your  nose  with  your  right  forefinger,"  he 

d. 

"Where  is  it.?"  I  asked. 

"On  your  face,"  said  he. 

"I  mean  my  right  forefinger,"  I  explained. 

"Oh,  excuse  me,"  said  he.    He  reopened  the  bathroom 


248  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

door,  and  I  took  my  finger  out  of  the  crack  of  it.  After  I  had 
performed  the  marvelous  digito-nasal  feat  I  said: 

"I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  you  as  to  symptoms,  Doctor; 
I  really  have  something  hke  a  pain  in  the  back  of  my  head." 
He  ignored  the  symptom  and  examined  my  heart  carefully 
with  a  latest-popular-air-penny-in-the-slot  ear-trumpet.  I 
felt  like  a  ballad.  "Now,"  he  said,  "gallop  like  a  horse  for 
about  five  minutes  around  the  room." 

I  gave  the  best  imitation  I  could  of  a  disqualified  Percheron 
being  led  out  of  Madison  Square  Garden.  Then,  without 
dropping  in  a  penny,  he  listened  to  my  chest  again. 

"No  glanders  in  our  family,  Doc,"  I  said. 

The  consulting  physician  held  up  his  forefinger  within  three 
inches  of  my  nose.     "Look  at  my  finger,"  he  commanded. 

"Did  you  ever  try  Pears' "     I  began;  but  he  went  on 

with  his  test  rapidly. 

"Now  look  across  the  bay.  At  my  fijiger.  Across  the 
bay.  At  my  finger.  At  my  finger.  Across  the  bay.  A- 
cross  the  bay.  At  my  finger.  Across  the  bay."  This  for 
about  three  minutes. 

He  explained  that  this  was  a  test  of  the  action  of  the  brain. 
It  seemed  easy  to  me.  I  never  once  mistook  his  finger  for 
the  bay.  I'll  bet  that  if  he  had  used  the  phrases:  "Gaze, 
as  it  were,  unpreoccupied,  outward — or  rather  laterally — in 
the  direction  of  the  horizon,  underlaid,  so  to  speak,  with  the 
adjacent  fluid  inlet,"  and  "Now,  returning — or  rather,  in  a 
manner,  withdrawing  your  attention,  bestow  it  upon  my  up- 
raised digit" — I'll  bet,  I  say,  that  Henry  James  himself  could 
have  passed  the  examination. 

After  asking  me  if  I  had  ever  had  a  grand  uncle  with  curva- 
ture of  the  spine  or  a  cousin  with  swelled  ankles,  the  two  doc- 
tors retired  to  the  bathroom  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bath 
tub  for  their  consultation.  I  ate  an  apple,  and  gazed  first 
at  my  finger  and  then  across  the  bay. 

The  doctors  came  out  looking  grave.  More:  they  looked 
tombstones  and  Tennessee-papers-please-copy.  They  wrote 
out  a  diet  list  to  which  I  was  to  be  restricted.     It  had  every- 


LET  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE  249 

thing  that  I  had  ever  heard  of  to  eat  on  it,  except  snails.  And 
I  never  eat  a  snail  unless  it  overtakes  me  and  bites  me  first. 

*'You  must  follow  this  diet  strictly,"  said  the  doctors. 

"I'd  follow  it  a  mile  if  I  could  get  one-tenth  of  what's 
on  it,"  I  answered. 

"Of  next  importance,"  they  went  on,  "is  outdoor  air  and 
exercise.  And  here  is  a  prescription  that  will  be  of  great 
benefit  to  you." 

Then  all  of  us  took  something.  They  took  their  hats,  and 
I  took  my  departure. 

I  went  to  a  druggist  and  showed  him  the  prescription. 

"It  will  be  $2.87  for  an  ounce  bottle,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  piece  of  your  wrapping  cord.^^"  said  I. 

I  made  a  hole  in  the  prescription,  ran  the  cord  through  it, 
tied  it  around  my  neck,  and  tucked  it  inside.  All  of  us  have 
a  little  superstition,  and  mine  runs  to  a  confidence  in  amulets. 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  but  I 
was  very  ill.  I  couldn't  work,  sleep,  eat,  or  bowl.  The  only 
way  I  could  get  any  sympathy  was  to  go  without  shaving 
for  four  days.  Even  then  somebody  would  say :  "Old  man, 
you  look  as  hardy  as  a  pine  knot.  Been  up  for  a  jaunt  in  the 
Maine  woods,  eh?" 

Then,  suddenly,  I  remembered  that  I  must  have  outdoor 
air  and  exercise.  So  I  went  down  South  to  John's.  John 
is  an  approximate  relative  by  verdict  of  a  preacher  standing 
with  a  little  book  in  his  hands  in  a  bower  of  chrysanthemums 
while  a  hundred  thousand  people  looked  on.  John  has  a 
country  house  seven  miles  from  Pineville.  It  is  at  an  altitude 
and  on  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains  in  a  state  too  dignified  to 
be  dragged  into  this  controversy.  John  is  mica,  which  is 
more  valuable  and  clearer  than  gold. 

He  met  me  at  Pineville,  and  we  took  the  trolley  car  to  his 
home.  It  is  a  big,  neighborless  cottage  on  a  hill  surrounded 
by  a  hundred  mountains.  We  got  off  at  his  little  private 
station,  where  John's  family  and  Amaryllis  met  and  greeted 
us.     Amaryllis  looked  at  me  a  trifle  anxiously. 

A  rabbit  came  bounding  across  the  hill  between  us  and  the 


250  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

house.  I  threw  down  my  suit-case  and  pursued  it  hotfoot. 
After  I  had  run  twenty  yards  and  seen  it  disappear,  I  sat 
down  on  the  grass  and  wept  disconsolately. 

"I  can't  catch  a  rabbit  any  more,"  I  sobbed.  "I'm  of 
no  further  use  in  the  world.     I  may  as  well  be  dead." 

"Oh,  what  is  it — what  is  it,  Brother  John.^"  I  heard 
Amaryllis  say. 

"Nerves  a  little  unstrung,"  said  John,  in  his  calm  way. 
"Don't  worry.  Get  up,  you  rabbit-chaser,  and  come  on  to 
the  house  before  the  biscuits  get  cold."  It  was  about  twi- 
light, and  the  mountains  came  up  nobly  to  Miss  Murfree's 
descriptions  of  them. 

Soon  after  dinner  I  announced  that  I  believed  I  could  sleep 
for  a  year  or  two,  including  legal  holidays.  So  I  was  shown 
to  a  room  as  big  and  cool  as  a  flower  garden,  where  there  was 
a  bed  as  broad  as  a  lawn.  Soon  afterward  the  remainder  of 
the  household  retired,  and  then  there  fell  upon  the  land  a 
silence. 

I  had  not  heard  a  silence  before  in  years.  It  was  absolute. 
I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  and  listened  to  it.  Sleep!  I 
thought  that  if  I  only  could  hear  a  star  twinkle  or  a  blade  of 
grass  sharpen  itself  I  could  compose  myself  to  rest.  I 
thought  once  that  I  heard  a  sound  like  the  sail  of  a  catboat 
flapping  as  it  veered  about  in  a  breeze,  but  I  decided  that  it 
was  probably  only  a  tack  in  the  carpet.     Still  I  listened. 

Suddenly  some  belated  bird  alighted  upon  the  window-sill, 
and,  in  what  he  no  doubt  considered  sleepy  tones,  enunciated 
the  noise  generally  translated  as  "cheep!" 

I  leaped  into  the  air. 

*'Hey!  what's  the  matter  down  there?"  called  John  from 
his  room  above  mine. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  I  answered,  "except  that  I  accidentally 
bumped  my  head  against  the  ceiling." 

The  next  morning  I  went  out  on  the  porch  and  looked  at 
the  mountains.  There  were  forty-seven  of  them  in  sight.  I 
shuddered,  went  into  the  big  hall  sitting  room  of  the  house, 
selected  "Pancoast's  Family  Practice  of  Medicine"  from  a 


LET  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE  251 

bookcase,  and  began  to  read.  John  came  in,  took  the  book 
away  from  me,  and  led  me  outside.  He  has  a  farm  of  three 
hundred  acres  furnished  with  the  usual  complement  of 
barns,  mules,  peasantry,  and  harrows  with  three  front 
teeth  broken  off.  I  had  seen  such  things  in  my  childhood, 
and  my  heart  began  to  sink. 

Then  John  spoke  of  alfalfa,  and  I  brightened  at  once. 
**0h,  yes,"  said  I,  "wasn't  she  in  the  chorus  of — let's  see *' 

"Green,  you  know,"  said  John,  "and  tender,  and  you 
plough  it  under  after  the  first  season." 

"I  know,"  said  I,  "and  the  grass  grows  over  her." 

"Eight,"  said  John.  "You  know  something  about  farm- 
ing, after  all." 

"I  know  something  of  some  farmers,"  said  I,  "and  a  sure 
scythe  will  mow  them  down  some  day." 

On  the  way  back  to  the  house  a  beautiful  and  inexplicable 
creature  walked  across  our  path.  I  stopped  irresistibly 
fascinated,  gazing  at  it.  John  waited  patiently,  smoking  his 
cigarette.  He  is  a  modern  farmer.  After  ten  minutes  he  said : 
"Are  you  going  to  stand  there  looking  at  that  chicken  all  day? 
Breakfast  is  nearly  ready." 

"A  chicken?"  said  I. 

"A  White  Orpington  hen,  if  you  want  to  particularize." 

"A  White  Orpington  hen?"  I  repeated,  with  intense  in- 
terest. The  fowl  walked  slowly  away  with  graceful  dignity, 
and  I  followed  like  a  child  after  the  Pied  Piper.  Five  minutes 
more  were  allowed  me  by  John,  and  then  he  took  me  by  the 
sleeve  and  conducted  me  to  breakfast. 

After  I  had  been  there  a  week  I  began  to  grow  alarmed. 
I  was  sleeping  and  eating  well  and  actually  beginning  to 
enjoy  life.  For  a  man  in  my  desperate  condition  that  would 
never  do.  So  I  sneaked  down  to  the  trolley-car  station, 
took  the  car  for  Pineville,  and  went  to  see  one  of  the  best 
physicians  in  town.  By  this  time  I  knew  exactly  what  to  do 
when  I  needed  medical  treatment.  I  hung  my  hat  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  and  said  rapidly: 

"Doctor,  I  have  cirrhosis  of  the  heart,  indurated  arteries. 


252  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

neurasthenia,  neuritis,  acute  indigestion,  and  convalescence. 
I  am  going  to  live  on  a  strict  diet.  I  shall  also  take  a  tepid 
bath  at  night  and  a  cold  one  in  the  morning.  I  shall  en- 
deavor to  be  cheerful,  and  fix  my  mind  on  pleasant  subjects. 
In  the  way  of  drugs  I  intend  to  take  a  phosphorous  pill  three 
times  a  day,  preferably  after  meals,  and  a  tonic  composed  of 
the  tinctures  of  gentian,  cinchona,  calisaya,  and  cardamon 
compound.  Into  each  teaspoonful  of  this  I  shall  mix  tincture 
of  nux  vomica,  beginning  with  one  drop  and  increasing  it 
a  drop  each  day  until  the  maximum  dose  is  reached.  I  shall 
drop  this  with  a  medicine-dropper,  which  can  be  procured  at 
a  trifling  cost  at  any  pharmacy.     Good  morning." 

I  took  my  hat  and  walked  out.  After  I  had  closed  the 
door  I  remembered  something  that  I  had  forgotten  to  say. 
I  opened  it  again.  The  doctor  had  not  moved  from  where  he 
had  been  sitting,  but  he  gave  a  slightly  nervous  start  when  he 
saw  me  again. 

"I  forgot  to  mention,"  said  I,  "that  I  shall  also  take  abso- 
lute rest  and  exercise." 

After  this  consultation  I  felt  much  better.  The  re-establish- 
ing in  my  mind  of  the  fact  that  I  was  hopelessly  ill  gave  me 
so  much  satisfaction  that  I  almost  became  gloomy  again. 
There  is  nothing  more  alarming  to  a  neurasthenic  than  to 
feel  himself  growing  well  and  cheerful. 

John  looked  after  me  carefully.  After  I  had  evinced  so 
much  interest  in  his  ^Vhite  Orpington  chicken  he  tried  his 
best  to  divert  my  mind,  and  was  particular  to  lock  his  hen 
house  of  nights.  Gradually  the  tonic  mountain  air,  the 
wholesome  food,  and  the  daily  walks  among  the  hills  so 
alleviated  my  malady  that  I  became  utterly  wretched  and 
despondent.  I  heard  of  a  country  doctor  who  lived  in  the 
mountains  near  by.  I  went  to  see  him  and  told  him  the 
whole  story.  He  was  a  gray-bearded  man  with  clear,  blue, 
wrinkled  eyes,  in  a  home-made  suit  of  gray  jeans. 

In  order  to  save  time  I  diagnosed  my  case,  touched 
my  nose  with  my  right  forefinger,  struck  myself  below 
the  knee  to  make  my  foot  kick,  sounded  my  chest,  stuck 


LET  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE  253 

out  my  tongue,  and  asked  him  the  price  of  cemetery  lots  in 
Pineville. 

He  ht  his  pipe  and  looked  at  me  for  about  three  minutes. 
"Brother,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "you  are  in  a  mighty  bad 
way.  There's  a  chance  for  you  to  pull  through,  but  it's  a 
mighty  slim  one." 

"What  can  it  be?"  I  asked  eagerly.  "I  have  taken 
arsenic  and  gold,  phosphorus,  exercise,  nux  vomica,  hy- 
drotherapeutic  baths,  rest,  excitement,  codein,  and  aromatic 
spirits  of  ammonia.  Is  there  anything  left  in  the  pharma- 
copoeia?" 

"Somewhere  in  these  mountains,"  said  the  doctor,  "there's 
a  plant  growing — a  flowering  plant  that'll  cure  you,  and 
it's  about  the  only  thing  that  will.  It's  of  a  kind  that's  as 
old  as  the  world;  but  of  late  it's  powerful  scarce  and  hard  to 
find.  You  and  I  will  have  to  hunt  it  up.  I'm  not  engaged 
in  active  practice  now:  I'm  getting  along  in  years;  but  I'll 
take  your  case.  You'll  have  to  come  every  day  in  the  after^ 
noon  and  help  me  hunt  for  this  plant  till  we  fimd  it.  The 
city  doctors  may  know  a  lot  about  new  scientific  things, 
but  they  don't  know  much  about  the  cures  that  nature  carries 
around  in  her  saddle  bags." 

So  every  day  the  old  doctor  and  I  hunted  the  cure-all  plant 
among  the  mountains  and  valleys  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  To- 
gether we  toiled  up  steep  heights  so  slippery  with  fallen 
autumn  leaves  that  we  had  to  catch  every  sapling  and  branch 
within  our  reach  to  save  us  from  falling.  We  waded  through 
gorges  and  chasms,  breast-deep  with  laurel  and  ferns;  we 
followed  the  banks  of  mountain  streams  for  miles;  we  wound 
our  way  like  Indians  through  brakes  of  pine — road  side,  hill 
side,  river  side,  mountain  side  we  explored  in  our  search  for 
the  miraculous  plant. 

As  the  old  doctor  said,  it  must  have  grown  scarce  and  hard 
to  find.  But  we  followed  our  quest.  Day  by  day  we 
plumbed  the  valleys,  scaled  the  heights,  and  tramped  the 
plateaus  in  search  of  the  miraculous  plant.  Mountain-bred, 
he  never  seemed  to  tire.     I  often  reached  home  too  fatigued 


254  STORIES  FROM  O.  HENRY 

to  do  anything  except  fall  into  bed  and  sleep  until  morning. 
This  we  kept  up  for  a  month. 

One  evening  after  I  had  returned  from  a  six-mile  tramp  with 
the  old  doctor,  Amaryllis  and  I  took  a  Httle  walk  under  the 
trees  near  the  road.  We  looked  at  the  mountains  drawing 
their  royal-purple  robes  around  them  for  their  night's  repose. 
"I'm  glad  you're  well  again,"  she  said.  "When  you  first 
came  you  frightened  me.     I  thought  you  were  really  ill." 

"Well  again!"  I  almost  shrieked.  "Do  you  know  that 
I  have  only  one  chance  in  a  thousand  to  live.'^" 

AmaryUis  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  "WTiy,"  said  she, 
"you  are  as  strong  as  one  of  the  plough-mules,  you  sleep 
ten  or  twelve  hours  every  night,  and  you  are  eating  us  out 
of  house  and  home.     What  more  do  you  want.^  " 

"I  tell  you,"  said  I,  "that  unless  we  find  the  magic — that 
is,  the  plant  we  are  looking  for — in  time,  nothing  can  save  me. 
The  doctor  tells  me  so." 
"What  doctor?" 

"Doctor  Tatum — the  old  doctor  who  lives  half  way  up 
Black  Oak  Mountain.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"I  have  known  him  since  I  was  able  to  talk.  And  is  that 
where  you  go  every  day — is  it  he  who  takes  you  on  these 
long  walks  and  climbs  that  have  brought  back  your  health 
and  strength?     God  bless  the  old  doctor." 

Just  then  the  old  doctor  himself  drove  slowly  down  the 
road  in  his  rickety  old  buggy.  I  waved  my  hand  at  him  and 
shouted  that  I  would  be  on  hand  the  next  day  at  the  usual 
time.  He  stopped  his  horse  and  called  to  Amaryllis  to  come 
out  to  him.  They  talked  for  five  minutes  while  I  waited. 
Then  the  old  doctor  drove  on. 

When  we  got  to  the  house  Amaryllis  lugged  out  an  en- 
cyclopaedia and  sought  a  word  in  it.  "The  doctor  said," 
she  told  me,  "that  you  needn't  call  any  more  as  a  patient, 
but  he'd  be  glad  to  see  you  any  time  as  a  friend.  And  then 
he  told  me  to  look  up  my  name  in  the  encyclopaedia  and  tell 
you  what  it  means.  It  seems  to  be  the  name  of  a  genus  of 
flowering  plants,  and  also  the  name  of  a  country  girl  in 


LET  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE  ^5 

Theocritus  and  Virgil.  What  do  you  suppose  the  doctor 
meant  by  that?" 

"I  know  what  he  meant,"  said  I.     " I  know  now." 

A  word  to  a  brother  who  may  have  come  under  the  spell 
of  the  unquiet  Lady  Neurasthenia. 

The  formula  was  true.  Even  though  gropingly  at  times, 
the  physicians  of  the  walled  cities  had  put  their  fingers  upon 
the  specific  medicament. 

And  so  for  the  exercise  one  is  referred  to  good  Doctor 
Tatum  on  Black  Oak  Mountain — take  the  road  to  your 
right  at  the  Methodist  meeting  house  in  the  pine-grove. 

Absolute  rest  and  exercise! 

What  rest  more  remedial  than  to  sit  with  Amaryllis  in 
the  shade,  and,  with  a  sixth  sense,  read  the  wordless  Theoc- 
ritan  idyl  of  the  gold-bannered  blue  mountains  marching 
orderly  into  the  dormitories  of  the  night? 


THE  END 


